


Hysteria

by ZuzuPetalsInkBlotao3



Category: Star Trek: Discovery, star trek discovery
Genre: F/M, Gothic, Gothic Romance, M/M, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:09:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 100,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZuzuPetalsInkBlotao3/pseuds/ZuzuPetalsInkBlotao3
Summary: COMPLETE- Michael Burnham, oddity of the upper social class, is sent to as a governess by her guardian, Lord Sarek, to Gallowglass Manor. There she will educate the little lady of the house. Little does Michael know that her arrival shakes the foundations of the old manor. There are tales of the house and it's family, dark, twisted rumors. Is there any truth to it... or is it all in her mind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoy this! So far I am keeping the actual year ambiguous but we'll say late 1800's.

**Hysteria**

 

By Zuzu Petal

  
  


The house was bigger and more grand than anything she had ever seen before. She had been fortunate enough to grow up in the house and employ of a lord before, but this was no common lord.

 

The house was designed and constructed over many times; the most recent was a gothic type of style that made it appear more like a grand house of worship than a place to live and have a family. 

 

The ancient roots of the house, it’s history and it’s family were deep. Locals even believed in the lore and folk tales that encompassed it. Legend and myth about the old family were many and there was much variety when it came to their origin and truth. 

 

It’s rooms were vast, never ending it seemed, staircases and hallways that appeared to go nowhere were a common myth amongst former staff who had once worked at The Big House.

 

The gentry were more aware of the ins and outs of the house; however the rich, lively parties had ceased long ago. 

 

The death of the patriarch brought a shadow over the place, but even years prior, the mother had met a grizzly fate that to this day is much of the gossip and talk amongst the locals. Then the son, the current lord, forged his own mysterious path. 

 

_ She leapt to her death! She was stabbed by her mad husband! Was that son of hers who done it! And what about his own wife? Where has her soul been banished to? _

 

The stories took on a life of their own, weaving and sewing their threads into the tapestries and roots of the house.

 

Michael Burnham had been warned, of course, that such an astute young woman such as herself would be better suited serving another family.

 

But it was the child in question who had first appealed to her. Her guardian and lifelong employer, Lord Sarek, had saved this one particular posting as the last.

 

_ “I dare say, Burnham, you will not last in that establishment with your temperament.” _

 

But go she did, and arrive she would indeed.

 

The one takeaway was the journey itself, if she were being honest. Alone, unchaperoned, away from the piercing and judgmental eyes of her superiors.

 

Years of being groomed, boarded, taught and beaten now a passing memory.

 

Michael had not traveled so far from her employer's home since her return from her education, and even that had been an experience she hoped to one day forget.

 

Whitshire Academy for Young Ladies was just that, for young ladies; not the impoverished and orphaned spawn of servants. 

 

She had been a pet project, something to amuse her guardian and his circle of friends. Something to be moulded and shaped into something else.

 

Michael’s parentage and identity must be made anew if she were to live as a civilized member of Lord Sarek’s staff and household. She was educated, taught etiquette and to respect her elders and her betters and to, above all things, fear and love the almighty with all her heart.

 

Daily beatings and various forms of corporal punishment were common place at Whitshire, especially for someone like her; the rod was never spared.

 

Upon the completion of her education, which she made in great haste, she was sixteen. When she returned to Lord Sarek he had a new wife, his eldest son sent away to boarding school and his bride quickly pregnant. She was thankful for the absence of his eldest son. 

 

After the child’s birth and a few years of age and growth the stoic Lord saw the genius of not only his own child but of his ward as well and took it upon himself to promote her from her lowly position as maid to governess.

 

Michael was given the privilege of a better wage, a modest wardrobe and her own private room.

 

But, with Spock advancing quickly, and the internal family squabbles that took place upon the return of Mister Sybok, Lord Sarek’s eldest son, the man of the house thought it best for everyone if his youngest and second son should be sent to live with his wife’s relatives, for the time being.

 

Michael saw the grief in Lady Amanda’s eyes the whole month leading up to her only child’s departure and in a moment of pain and sadness- and great panic- the good lady confesses in Michael something so unimaginable that it forces the young girl to take a vow of silence.

 

_ “Lord Sarek... he fears that Sybok will... oh Michael, it is so horrible. My sweet baby boy, forced from my arms. He fears Sybok will bring harm to Spock. Oh dear- you look at me as if- oh, Michael, please you cannot say a word. Swear it to me, Michael, swear it on your life!” _

 

And so it was, as the carriage rocked over mud and puddles and rain beat in through the broken window, that Michael was on her way to her first official post. She had been in correspondence with the housekeeper and according to her the staff was kept minimally small. 

 

A butler to oversee the rest of the staff such as the gardener and gamekeeper, who was also the Lord’s valet despite the immense size of the manor, the housekeeper to keep the few maids in order and the cook to feed everyone. 

 

The letters between herself and the housekeeper, Mrs. Staff, were pleasant enough. Michael was cordial but not overeager. She wasn’t trying to lose the post based on being too intrusive. But her fears were for naught and the position was hers with only a few more weeks of letters.

 

Lord Sarek was pleased, if not distracted by other personal matters that seemed to daunt him by the minute. Sybok’s  _ peculiar _ behavior was something Michael had experience in first hand. He always seemed to be... lurking somewhere in the house, staring at her. Commenting on her the color of her skin, lifting a piece of her apron a little too closely or too high...

 

_ “You are so... unusual. Exotic, alien. Bizarre, even.”  _

 

Michael had been thankful when her guardian had appeared as queerly as Sybok seemed to. With one look the young man strode away into the corridors of the eerie house, leaving Michael alone to wonder and feel strange and fearful about Sybok’s actions. 

 

She was grateful to be away from him, for he didn’t seem to be leaving the comforts of his father’s house anytime soon. She was grateful she would no longer have to endure his leering looks, the way he followed her even if she couldn’t see him. It frightened her. 

 

Michael arrived at Gallowglass Manor at seven o’clock in the evening, the windows were alight with candles and the gates were pushed open and wide to allow the carriage through. Michael peaked out and through the fog saw the eyes of a young man alight with the burning tobacco of a pipe; his skin dark like her own, he tipped his cap back at her passing. 

 

The drive was long and narrow with foliage, great bushes of plants that seemed overgrown. Nothing like the well kept gardens and hedge mazes of Vulcan. 

 

Along the way dogs ran past the carriage barking and howling, so many so that the young lady lost count. The pack followed the carriage still barking and alerting the enormous house of her arrival. Michael felt her heart beginning to flutter, balking at the sight of such a place where people lived and possibly even died. 

 

_ The Sight, Michael, is not somethin’ to be meddled with,  _ her mother had once warned her. 

 

Trifling spirits or not she would steel herself against whatever negativity or insecurities were beginning to brim to the surface of herself. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the front doors, waiting was a man with the darkest blue eyes she had ever seen and the lightest hair on a man that she was sure women were envious of. 

 

The carriage door is opened, the driver moves to the back to get her meager trunk and small traveling bag. She brought few belongings since she had little to begin with. Being the daughter of servants didn’t afford her much by the way of personal effects.

 

“Miss. Burnham, I presume?” The man says with a tone that said more than what he was verbalizing. She nods, the driver drops her trunk at her feet, her bag atop it, giving her a dastardly look before climbing back to his seat. The dogs have reached them, sniffing and nudging her.

 

Lord Sarek detested animals unless he was killing them. Michael found hunting animals to be a disgusting and cowardly sport, she held out her hand for each of the six dogs to sniff at their will.

 

“Mr. Stamets?” She says, and with a simple curt nod his identity is confirmed. 

“I had assumed Mrs. Staff would be here to greet me,” Michael says, leaning down to pull her bag over one shoulder and lifting her trunk between her arms. 

 

Mr. Stamets didn’t even bat an eye at her momentary struggle to balance her things. 

 

“Mrs. Staff suffered an accident, she is dead.” Mr. Stamets blunt delivery shocked Michael. The door remained closed, the sun setting over the present fog creating a red glow that illuminated his pale features. 

 

“I... I am so sorry.” Michael says out of politeness and, honestly, shock. 

“Yes. A tragedy, truly. Well, such sentiments are wasted on myself, shall we?” 

 

Mr. Stamets turns on his heel and opens one of the two heavy doors, stepping aside to allow her entry. Swallowing subtly she mounts the few cement stairs and passes through the doors and into the warmth, into the... darkness.

 

The lights in the windows had been some kind of illusion, the entryway however was dark, her eyes had to adjust to the twilight of the house. 

 

“Lord Lorca suffers from photosensitivity,” Mr. Stamets quickly begins explaining, barely leaving Michael any time to study her surroundings as he begins ascending the main staircase. 

“He prefers low light in the mornings and afternoons,” as he walks he stops at various oil lamps to raise the level of light in them, alighting the hallway to give way to beautiful paintings and busts. 

 

“In the evenings we may turn the lamps up to a suitable state but they must all be at the same level. He is a man who appreciates little variance.” Mr. Stamets says, he opens a door painted into the wall, these types of doorways and staircases are familiar to people like Michael. It’s a servants staircase, so as to be out of the way of the lords, ladies and their little sweet children. 

 

“When am I to meet Lord Lorca’s child?” Michael asks him, Mr. Stamets smirks though, he thinks she can’t see him. She senses a great deal of arrogance from him.

 

“Miss. Tilly is not his lordship’s child but his... niece.” 

“Mrs. Staff never said-”

“Good,” Mr. Stamets cuts in, turning on the winding staircase to look down at her. She has to rebalance her luggage. “It is a private matter.”

 

“I understand.” Michael says assuredly. 

“I trust you do, Miss. Burnham.” 

 

The journey continues for minutes more, her arms growing tired and through the thick layers of her dress she feels the perspiration beginning to gather at her lower back. Mr. Stamets turns up more lamps along the way. 

 

“Here we are,” Stamets says, bringing from his pocket a ring of brass keys. He presses one into the lock of a plain white door and turns it with some effort before it gives. The air inside the room is stale, she can see the dust dancing from the light coming from the hall. “This will be your room, there’s another staircase at the other end of the hall that leads to Miss. Tilly’s rooms. I will give you a better tour tomorrow before her lessons begin.”

 

Michael sets down her trunk at the foot of the bed, which has been laid out with fresh sheets, a pillow and a heavy wool blanket. 

 

“I was hoping I would make Miss. Tilly’s acquaintance this evening.” Michael says, avoiding to let out the burdening sigh from her arms exhaustion. 

 

“Miss. Tilly is taking dinner in her room, she will be put to bed soon afterwards.” Mr. Stamets turns to leave when Michael speaks again,

 

“And when will I make Lord Lorca’s acquaintance?”

 

Mr. Stamets pauses in between the door and the hall, as if the question she posed was not expected. He looks over his shoulder, those dark blue orbs that seem to stare hatred into her, she doesn’t look away.

 

“When he decides it’s time.” Mr. Stamets says before departing, it seems to take all the willpower he has not to slam the door. She half expects him to lock her in. 

 

Finally alone she does indeed let out a sigh of relief, removing her bonnet and unbuttoning her overcoat. So many buttons, so many restrictions to every single part of her. She lights a few candles, pulling apart the shutters that keep the windows concealed. She cracks the window, letting in the fresh evening air and releasing the staleness that surrounds her. 

 

Unpacking her things was quick and easy work, it was mostly the books that weighed her down though she was assured by the late Mrs. Staff that other books would be provided for her. She takes a place at the small square desk that was provided for her, as well as paper inside, envelopes, there is ink and a quill. 

 

The quill was old, dull. But Michael was prepared; removing a small three inch knife from the inside of her boot, she unsheaths it and begins shaving the quill down to a better point. 

 

_ “To her Ladyship, _

 

_ I have arrived at Gallowglass Manor after a long but restful journey. I hope you all are well and in good health. I will be meeting my new charge tomorrow but I must confess the butler is stiff and nothing compared to Yates. But I hope my first impression is not the man as a whole.  _

 

_ My deepest respect to Lord Sarek and to yourself, Master Spock and Master Sybok.  _

 

_ With great affection, Michael S. Burnham.” _

 

With it ready to post the following morning, Michael changed and took to her bed. She had grown quite accustomed to unlacing herself from her corset as soon as she was old enough and unfortunate enough to be condemned to wearing one. With her back and arms sore she gives them a small rub before making the bed and turning in for the night. 

 

The candle by the window is transferred to her bedside table, the window still open a little to let in the air. She realizes she should’ve lit the fire but there was no coal for her. Standing so as not to have a cold come morning and be excused from her first post, she goes to the window to bring it in. 

 

But movement catches her eye as a shadowy figure moves across the vast lawn. It’s not one of the dogs however one passes by the figure moving in haste. 

 

Michael conceals herself while still spying on the figure, they’re moving towards a gravel path leading somewhere unknown, the hound still following closely and loyally. 

 

The figure disappears, along with their footfalls on gravel and the panting of the dog. She finishes closing the window and makes it back to her bed. Tugging the wool blanket closer to her chest she almost doesn’t blow out the candle, a queer chill tickling her spine. 

 

_ There’s nothing, just the gamekeeper,  _ she tells herself. The candle is extinguished, she turns onto her side. The house moves and hums with life, it surrounds her. She feels the Sight as she enters the state of her dreams. It’s reaching out to her slowly, luring her in and soon she is walking the halls of this house, bright and with life and laughter and years of generations coming and going.

 

Children's laughter, glasses clinking, music and body heat surrounds her... but the house is empty. The disembodied voices haunt this place, it’s furniture, it’s fixtures, it’s everything. The eyes of each portrait and painting following her...

 

The banging startles her, her legs willing her to run but there is nowhere to run. The doors slam shut as the heavy footsteps seem to run towards her, unseen and yet-

 

It’s not the cold that wakes Michael but heat. She rises slowly, the sun has not begun to rise. It must almost be dawn, she realizes. 

 

Then she notices the small fire. She freezes, glancing around herself as if someone might be in the tiny room with her but no, she is alone. Inspecting the burned wood she determines the fire has be alight for a few hours. The scorch marks and ash tell her many things, a boot print in front of it tells her it was a man.


	2. Chapter Two

Closing her nightgown tighter around herself she swallows thickly. Her first reaction is the same fear she felt when Master Sybok would corner her. Eating her alive with those mad eyes of his, his mustache curled turning him into a villain. 

 

Someone was here, while she was sleeping. While she was vulnerable and alone. A man, someone who could’ve-

 

She decides to calm, to collect her thoughts. Perhaps it was only Mr. Stamets, realizing he forgot the coal, realizing... it didn’t matter. It was an invasion of privacy and she had not even been here a whole night yet. Another thing she realized was her letter was gone... 

 

Before Michael could think more on what had transpired during her slumber a knock came to her door. She jumped and was thankful no one was nearby to witness her puzzlement. What a laugh the stranger must be having now at her expense. 

 

“Miss. Burnham?” It was Mr. Stamets’ voice. 

“I am awake,” she answers, realizing she’s still clutching her gown together with her hand, her palm sweaty now. 

 

“Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes,” he announces curtly, his departing footfalls hard against the wooden floorboards.

 

Michael would’ve called out “thank you” or asked for directions to kitchen where the servants were likely to eat but his departure was abrupt like most of his behavior thus far and she couldn’t rightly picture herself asking him if he had been the one to be inside her room last night without insulting him or appearing mad herself. 

 

_ A maid, perhaps a maid... who wears men’s boots,  _ she realized how ludicrous that sounded. 

 

But Michael had very little time to wonder and deduce who had been in her room last night. Instead she dressed quickly and with her hair pinned in a suitable fashion and books tucked under her arm she exited her room. All fear of not knowing how to find the kitchen was cast aside when she noticed Mr. Stamets waiting at the very end of the hall.

 

She was grateful for that at least. 

 

“Come along,” Mr. Stamets says impatiently, hurrying her along and down the servants staircase. A few maids passed her by, when they exited the enclosed path the house was drawn up and shuttered with no natural light entering. It was as if the household existed in perpetual night. 

 

“What was it you said Lord Lorca suffers from?” Michael asks.

“Photo _ sensitivity _ .” He answers, in his curt and rude manner as always.

“He is sensitive to light?” She clarifies and he nods stiffly, seemingly taken by surprise that she could decipher his cryptic answer.

 

“I have read about such things,” she continues. “How did it happen?” 

“Time.” He says simply and Michael snaps her mouth shut. Clearly, she wasn’t going to get anything from this man. He had decided to hate her and that was the way of it. 

 

Michael was used to people hating her for whatever their reasons were. It was part of her way of life since the moment of her birth, since the time Lord Sarek decided she would make a worthy pet, anyone who believed they were superior to her tested her knowledge and intelligence. 

 

They simply couldn’t believe someone like herself could have mastered all that she had. Michael kept her own personal education continuous even after leaving her boarding school. There was no place in Lord Sarek’s circle of society that did not seem to make it their mission to outwit her. 

 

So, she became the greatest wit of them all. But she did it silently, quietly, from the shadows, lest they call her a witch. Not that burning witches was legal anymore. But being an outcast and thrown into the streets was not something she wished to partake in. 

 

She played her part well: the exotic, innocent heathen brought forth from the depths of despair and poverty to become something more than what everyone believed she could be. Again, it was Lord Sarek’s vision of what she should be that had been realized, though she pretended very well. 

 

Breakfast was delicious and she paid her compliments to the cook, an older woman with graying brown hair, tucked neatly into a cap but the tendrils slithered out in thin snake like wisps, Mrs. Nell. 

 

“Now, Miss. Burnham, you will meet your new charge.” Mr. Stamets said as he finished his meal, as did the rest of the servants. Three maids, one with with the darkest ebony skin Michael had ever seen who stuck closely with the other maid, a redhead everyone referred to as Detmer. 

 

Landry, a severe looking woman who had been born in India and brought to England many years ago. 

 

Landry did not introduce herself, nor did she finish her meal. Michael noted how the maids seemed incredibly bothered by the way she simply sat there, watching each and every one of them while her delicious breakfast went wasted. Michael felt a queer feeling about the woman, the way a fly landed on her hand, scurrying about and she didn’t flinch. 

 

The darker maid was Owesokon, she was quiet and Michael later learned she had not been employed here long and roomed with Detmer. 

 

Leaving the kitchen area to make their way up to the first floor of the house Michael could hear the faint sounds of a piano playing, somewhere, someone was making music and they were no student either. Their technique had a personal touch to it only found in someone who had been playing for years. 

 

Michael didn’t want to impede the wrath of Mr. Stamets once more so she kept her inquiry as to who the musician in the household was to herself. Perhaps she would ask someone else later.

 

“Who is the new housekeeper if Mrs. Staff has passed on?” Michael asks him, walking in step with him rather than behind him which seemed to irk him ever more.

 

“Mrs. Landry has taken over the position as she was next in line and has the most experience in the house, besides myself of course.” Stamets explains. Michael was surprised that a woman so young as Landry should have the responsibility of such a great house; she was impressed as she had assumed Mrs. Landry was simply another maid. 

 

“Of course you cannot be a housekeeper, sir,” she jokes but he finds no humor in her wit. She clears her throat.

 

“Miss. Tilly is extremely intelligent,” Mr. Stamets says, changing the subject. “You will probably have a hard time keeping up with her. However her social skills are, quite frankly, what are in need the most.”

 

“Social skills, sir?” Michael asks as they come to an open door. 

“You will see.” 

 

They enter the more lightened classroom; a chalkboard covers one wall, the shuttered windows should be open but they are of course kept closed and locked like every other eye to the house. There’s a desk for the governess, shelves with books on various topics from Latin to arithmetic. 

 

All too quickly Miss. Tilly’s nanny departs, as if in great haste. Rude and poor manners seemed to be the way of this house. 

 

All of these school furnishings Michael was acutely familiar with were present. Master Spock had had his own room similar to this before being spirited away for his safety.

 

At the windowsill, looking out a window she could not see through, was a pale red headed child who looked forlorn and miserable through the shutters. As if the girl was trying imagine a world beyond her reach.

 

_ Does she even play outside?  _ Michael wondered.

 

“Miss. Tilly,” Stamets says, speaking more gently than Michael had ever heard him before.

 

The girl turns and stands, a curtsy is made, her hands drawn in front of her, the white lace at her hem shimmering in a lovely way in the light.

 

“This is Miss. Burnham, she is to be your new governess.” Stamets informs her.

 

“Pleasure to meet you Miss. Burnham.” The girl replies in a quiet voice. 

 

“Lady Tilly.” Michael says politely but Stamets shakes his head.

 

“Miss. Tilly does not hold the rank of lady.”

“But I thought-“

“It will be explained by Lord Lorca.”

 

Michael snaps her mouth shut.

 

“Well,” She begins, approaching the girl. “Miss. Tilly, what are your favorite subjects?”

 

The girl thinks, then a strange panicked look crossed her porcelain doll face, “Is this a test?” 

 

The girl flounders. Michael shakes her head.

 

“Not at all,” she assures in a calm voice. “We are simply getting to know one another.”

 

“Lord Lorca has a study guide for the girl,” Stamets says with an irritated tone. “It’s outlined on the desk.” He points.

 

“None of the other governess’ asked.” Sylvia says meekly.

 

“Well I am.”

 

Not one to be ignored Stamets reached for the paper on the desk, thrusting it into Michael’s hands.

 

“Do I have to read it aloud as well, Miss. Burnham, or are you still capable of reading the written word?”

 

Michael bites her tongue and chews her bottom lip, flipping the paper over and reading through the outline of the girl’s education and study schedule; she ponders that Lord Lorca has no idea how to produce such a schedule. She was the teacher and yet she was being ordered about as if she had no say at all. 

 

“Perhaps you would like to teach her French and Latin, Mr. Stamets.” Michael suggests in a haughty tone that challenges and angers him.

 

A giggle cuts the tension, then Sylvia clears her throat and corrects her outburst with an apology.

 

“Just follow your instructions.” He snaps before making another noisy exit.

 

Once alone with the girl Michael lays the paper down.

 

“I do not know about you,” Michael says. “But he’s rather stuffy.”

 

“He means well, I think.” Sylvia says, her hands fidgeting with her dress, her bottom lip in between her teeth.

 

“Now that we are alone do you want to tell me your favorite subject?”

 

Sylvia’s lips began to widen into a grin, as if no one had ever asked her anything before when it came to her own mind.

 

“Truly, I love the sciences.” Sylvia says happily.

“As do I. Any one topic in particular that interests you?”

 

Sylvia ran to the book shelves and pulled out one book, it was new and the pages still contained that new book smell before age and dust had a chance to dilute them.

 

“Astronomy?” Michael says, reading the cover. “How old are you, Miss. Tilly?”

 

“Ten and a half, ma’am.”

“When I was your age such things were first introduced to myself as well, wonders I never could have imagined.”

 

“I love each star, ma’am, with all my heart.”

 

Michael smiled at the girl; she was truly a passionate creature and not at all what the young governess had been expecting. 

 

Throughout the rest of the lessons Michael couldn’t help but wonder where her parents were. She didn’t want to pry if the child had suffered such a great loss as losing one's parents but her curiosity couldn’t help but wonder.

 

The child was Lord Lorca’s niece according to Mr. Stamets, but she didn’t have his name or the title of Lady. Even if Lord Lorca had a sister surely any child born from a familial relation would have some rank or title; these blue bloods tended to marry within their own small pool.

 

Michael had even heard of and seen such couples marry within their own families though it was not as common.

 

There was, of course, a more sinister possibility. The child could be a bastard, left in the care of the lord of the house. Michael chose not to entertain such thoughts. 

 

There could be a number of answers for the endless questions Michael had about the child. Throughout their lessons, Michael continued to hear the ever constant melody made by the same piano.

 

She dared believed that it had not stopped once. 

 

“Miss. Tilly,” Michael says, “Who's playing?”

“That would be his lordship.” She answers simply.

 

“I see. Does he not ever tire?” 

“Sometimes, but not most days.”

 

Michael found it curious that in the hours since she woke and met Sylvia that the man never took a break.

 

“Surely he cannot play all day.” Michael says and the girl shrugs.

 

“You get used to it. He says he cannot stand the noise of a house. Strange thing to say, but he is funny sometimes.”

 

“What do you mean, funny?” Michael’s curiosity about the child changed in the direction of the man himself. 

 

“He sometimes says funny things,” Sylvia says, resting her round chin on her hands. “Mostly about the light. Once, when I was smaller, I opened the window there,” She points to the shuttered window. “He was terribly cross with me. He asked me if I was trying to-“

 

Sylvia’s mouth snaps shut, a look of fear passing over her. She looks away from Michael and back to her studies. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks, laying a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder.

 

“I... I should not speak ill of his lordship. He’s been ever so kind to me.” Sylvia says on the brink of tears. But Michael abates it and soothes her kindly.

 

“You were not, Miss. Tilly. It is alright.” Michael seems to convince the child for her watering eyes cease. She sniffles and smiles, her cheeks red.

 

“Why don’t we get some fresh air? Shall we go for a walk?”

 

Sylvia shakes her head.

 

“Oh no we-we cannot!”

“Why not?”

“We must ask his lordship if we want to go outside.”

 

Michael, growing tired of the constant shadow of Lord Lorca, rises and holds out her hand.

 

“Then let us ask him. Where is he?” 

 

Michael had seen the look on Sylvia’s face before. It was perplexing to see oneself in another, to have the mirror image of a feeling so deeply felt shown so vividly in another.

 

Michael could see Sybok... he was appearing from the shadows to follow her during her daily tasks. To point out what made her so foreign and alluring to him. And she always noted the tone of both intention and disgust from him.

 

But she would not let Miss. Tilly fear someone who was only a man; a man with bizarre habits and rules. Some rules were meant to be broken, she decided.

 

“Come, Miss. Tilly, it might be a beautiful day but how will we ever know?” Michael says in a persuasive tone. “Have you ever walked the gardens?”

 

Little Sylvia swayed slightly back and forth, as if weighing the pros and cons of her situation. She was enticed, but she had never broken a rule of Lord Lorca’s since the dreaded incident with the window.

 

“Mrs. Staff would take me for walks but they were few and far between. But... but he will most likely say no so what is the point?”

 

For a child she was terribly thoughtful. But Michael also saw a cowed child whose spirit for adventure had been broken.

 

“If there’s nothing to lose then what’s the harm in asking?” Michael parried, raising a coy brow.

 

The girl huffed, crosses her arms and with a small finger pressed to her chin her brain turned over what it was she should do. 

 

Finally, the girl made up her mind.

 

“He will be in the drawing room, upstairs.”

 

Walking hand in hand with the child through the corridors of the house Michael realized just how vivid and accurate her nightmare had been. The halls were so much the same she wondered briefly if perhaps she had come down with another bout of sleepwalking.

 

She had done so many times as a child. So much so her parents begged Lord Sarek to have a doctor or a priest come to check her.

 

The doctor prescribed a sleeping medicine and it stopped for a few years until her parents untimely deaths.

 

Now it only occurred here and there. 

 

The haunting music grew closer during their journey towards the drawing room. The melody was beautiful but music had never been much of Michael’s forte. She had been lucky to attend a few concerts the Sareks held but was never invited to one in town.

 

She could play contemporary classics herself which she had mastered with precision, but anything beyond that was lost to her. She did find herself drawn to the harmony by which Lord Lorca played. He sounded very skilled indeed.

 

Outside the door the music thundered broadly against the hardwood. The ivory keys echoing in extreme intensity. 

 

Sylvia was positively shaking, biting her thumbnail, gnawing it red.

 

Michael herself felt extremely intimidated. Her heart was pounding like a drummer in her chest, meeting the frantic movements of fingers on keys.

 

“Perhaps we should not bother him.” Sylvia says in a shaking voice.

 

“Nonsense, you have every right to walk the gardens as any free human being or beast does.” Michael argued though it took some conviction on her part.

 

She raised her hand to the door, hesitating only a moment.

 

_ He’s just a man, like any other I’ve met before,  _ she reasoned and convinced herself of.

 

She knocks and the music stops with a terrible off key thunder that shocks both woman and girl. There’s a pause where no one breathes, Sylvia clutching Michael’s hand as if they were at the gates of hell.

 

Her little thumbnail chewed away.

 

There’s a crash, the lid slamming onto keys. Then the infernal pounding of solid against solid, a hard unmoving object being thrust against an immovable one. 

 

Michael and Sylvia both in tandem took uneven steps back, the banging grew louder shocking Michael into the sense that she was still dreaming, frightening Sylvia to the point of wrapping her arms around Michael’s waist.

 

Then... nothing. Then a bell was rung from far away, the echo slithering up the halls.

 

In almost no time at all, Mr. Stamets appeared from the gloom looking as dour as ever.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Stamets demands, his eyes falling to the door, then looking about himself, listening. He even went as far as pressing his ear to the door, as quiet as a mouse. 

 

Next, he rounded on Sylvia and Michael but it was the governess who received his physical wrath. Michael gasped as he grabbed her arm roughly in his fist.

 

“What have you done?” He snarled, the young woman pushed her hands against him and Sylvia was frightened into a corner covering her eyes.

 

“I-I do not understand! You’re hurting me!” She shouted.

 

“The music  _ never  _ stops!” He yelled, his eyes wide in his fury.

 

Sylvia gasps as the door opens, only a little, and Michael swears she has never seen such darkness; natural or unnatural. It sends a personal shiver through her.

 

Stamets releases Michael to face the door, holding out her arms but never taking her eyes off the now open door she gestures for Sylvia to come to her which the child does with little convincing. Her instinct to protect the girl. 

 

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” Stamets says his voice trembling, “Miss. Burnham does not yet understand-“

 

“I should like to hear it from the governess herself.” The voice cuts through the darkened room towards the trio in the hall. It’s close, the voice is so close, but there is no shape, no silhouette. Nothing to give the impression a person made of flesh and blood was truly standing before them. 


	3. Chapter Three

_ A living ghost...  _ she thinks madly for a moment. The Sight is pulsing behind her eyelids, within her brain, creeping crawling like a rabbit caught in a snare. 

 

Stamets glances at Michael, his upper lip twitching with indignation. 

 

“Well?” The voice says, deep and baleful. “What say you... Miss. Burnham?” 

 

The Sight however was a little overwhelming. Never had she felt such a pull, such a tether be cinched so tightly to another soul before. She felt as if the laces on her corset had tightened another inch. She must find her voice... find it, use it.

 

“I... I only wished to take Miss. Tilly for a turn around the gardens, sir. The child needs fresh air, it is good for the young to be out in nature.” She explains, her voice tight. She was acutely aware that the eyes were looking her up and down though she could not explain how she knew this. A tickle up her spine, a fear of the dark when you felt as if someone was lurking nearby.

 

_ It is NOT Master Sybok... it is not him. _

 

“And for this I was disturbed?” The voice questions and all she can do is nod, though she does lower her gaze despite the gnawing feeling she should not. As if she were looking into the depths of a predator’s abode. 

 

“I only sought to ask permission, sir.” She concludes. 

 

“Then, Miss. Burnham,” the voice says slowly as the light within the room slowly begins to rise, “I see no reason to deny you such a venture.”

 

Michael feels Sylvia’s hand slip into her own. The man appears before her and she must confess he was not what she expected. He fills the doorframe with his broad shoulders, his height is a little above average but her guardian, Lord Sarek, is taller. His face his clean and his nose very much the epitome of his, no doubt, aristocratic bloodline. 

 

“Tha... thank you, my lord.” Michael says with all the courtesy she can muster. 

“Please do not interrupt me again in the future.” She nods, it is not a request but a command.

 

The door closes and each person in the hall breathes a sigh of relief, Stamets clutches a hand to his gut. 

 

“You idiot,” he seethes. “Never disturb the master during the day.”

“You never warned me-”

“Have you no  _ sense _ , woman?” 

 

Without another word Stamets storms away in his usual abrupt and haughty way. 

 

Michael refuses to let him get under her skin. 

 

“Come, Miss. Tilly,” Michael says, finding her center at peace once more. “Let us go outside.” 

“He really said we could go,” Sylvia says as they depart, she sounds unsure if what just happened actually took place. “He... he never says yes.” 

 

“Well, he did today. That is a small victory, is it not?” Michael asks her, keeping the tremor from her voice, because as they leave and ready themselves for their walk Michael still feels the same unease that she is being watched. 

 

The Sight had never sung so loudly to her before. Was it a warning, was it something else? Michael could not truly decipher what the voices were trying to tell her. 

 

All she knew was that he had been amiable, polite, despite his intimidating demeanor. But he had given in to her request. Stepping into the sun, exiting through the downstairs kitchen door which was used for deliveries, Michael tucks Sylvia’s hair into her bonnet.

 

The day is cool but the sun is bright and Michael uses this time to continue her charge’s lessons but to also scratch an itch; the urge to explore had never been so great in her before. And she set about seeing as much of the grounds as she could before the sun set and dinner was prepared.

 

The gardens were beautiful, the lawn was kept in perfect condition and the hedges were all at a perfect symmetry that would have made the gardener at Vulcan envious. Michael would be sure to add this in her next letter... but there was still the matter of her first letter. The one missing, as well as the mystery as to whom had lit the fire while she was sleeping. Taking great comfort in the fact she had not been assaulted or damaged in any way Michael sought to understand the motivations behind the stranger who had stole so quietly into her room.

 

The boots told her it was a man, that much she was sure. And what men had she encountered or seen since her arrival? The gamekeeper- the dark skinned man at the gate whom she had seen only in passing- but they had not made any introductions to one another, he owed her nothing. Then there was Mr. Stamets, but he was the last person Michael could invision thinking of her comfort after the way he had so ungentlemanly accosted her, and in front of a child no less.

 

There was a footman she had seen at breakfast, Conner, but he was a meek looking thing and the boots had been large. 

 

That left only one other male she knew of in the household and that was the lord of the house himself. But they had not met, no introduction had been made between each other. And perhaps he had already been to bed or not been home when she had arrived. There was no way of knowing he even knew she was in the house at the time. 

 

In conclusion, whomever it had been who had entered her room had seen only to make sure she was warm and secure. But then there was the matter of the missing letter. Why light her fire but take her letter? It’s contents were meaningless to an outsider who did not know her or her aquacantence to the Sareks. 

 

An irrational, fearful part of her mind distressed that it could be Master Sybok. But that was impossible and too out of the realm of possibility. 

 

And despite Lord Lorca’s unseemly and unnatural appearance this morning, it was only Sybok’s shadow she feared would suddenly take shape before her. 

 

_ “Why so scared little girl?” He asked her, his arms on either side of her head, his pale neck outstretched, his fingers moving in like cobwebs towards her hair. “Have I ever harmed you? Why, you’re practically like a  _ **_sister_ ** _...” _

 

“Miss. Burnham?” Sylvia’s voice was a welcome reprieve from the dark corner of Michael’s memory and with the company of the innocent girl she closed that door to her mind, at least, for the time being. 

 

“Yes, Miss. Tilly?” Michael walked closely beside the child as they moved down the winding path leading to the rose gardens.

 

“What if flowers never stopped blooming?” The suggestion was absurd of course but a child’s question nonetheless and Michael knew the girl was far more clever than to busy herself with such trifles.

 

“What if indeed, Miss. Tilly.”

“I should wish that flowers remained in bloom all year, think of the snow surrounded by hundreds of red roses!” 

 

The imagination of a child was not one to be taken for granted. Even at a young woman’s age as Michael was herself, she had noticed that her ability to imagine such grand and wonderous fantasies had grown muddled with age and experience. She no longer had that compulsion as little girls do to pick up a doll and daydream an entire life for the stuffed automaton, complete with memories and moments unique to that figurine. 

 

“It would be beautiful, Miss. Tilly.” Michael agreed, the girl’s hand tightened on her own.

“I like you, Miss. Burnham. You are not at all like the other governess’.” 

 

Michael smiled at this.

 

“And what is it that sets me apart?” She couldn’t help but ask. Tilly plucked a small rose from the bush and handed it to her.

 

“You are nice and kind and you are young. You remind me of my mother.” Michael’s ears perked considerably. 

 

“And what do you remember of your mother?” Michael could not help herself, they were alone, no one to listen and no Mr. Stamets to swoop down like a great bald eagle to hush the child into silence.

 

“That she was beautiful,”  _ was _ Michael notes. “And soft, her hands were delicate. Lord Lorca says I have her hands.” 

 

“And what else does he say of your mother?” 

 

Sylvia opens her mouth to speak but stops, her cheeks flushing pink and Michael looks in the direction her eyes had suddenly been drawn to. A shadow lurked behind an open window, so shocking that the governess gasped and squeezed the stem of the rose only to prick her finger on the thorn.

 

“Ah,” she hissed as the little droplet ran down her index finger. “How clumsy of me.”

 

When Michael looked back the window was shuttered once more and her mind had been in such a state of shock she couldn’t remember who or even what had been standing there. 

 

Watching them... listening, perhaps? The Sight whispered in unintelligible murmurs. Another warning or perhaps something else. Michael was not sure.

 

“Miss. Tilly, perhaps we should continue with our lessons. The hour is growing late and you will need your luncheon soon.” 

 

“Yes, Miss. Burnham.” 

 

Michael walked the child back the way in which they came, the rose held loosely between her fingers. 

 

Mr. Stamets came to collect Michael just after Miss. Tilly’s final lesson and before dinner was to be served. He was not nearly as red in the face as he had been before and a queer calmness seemed to surround him that had not been there before. He didn’t look her in the eye as he done so willingly and rudely before.

 

But with Mr. Stamets came a message,

 

“His Lordship wishes to make introductions.” 

 

Michael’s heart beat wildly in her chest, like an untamed stallion in need of being broken, it galloped and searched for a way to escape such a meeting. But alas, there was no hope for that. She knew this would need to take place eventually but after this morning’s embarrassment she was more or less hesitant. 

 

A first impression had already been made, formed and analyzed of her. Of this she was most certain. A man, so obviously reclusive as Lord Lorca, had a great deal of time to ponder the attributes of a newcomer. 

 

“I should like to extend my apologies, Miss. Burnham.” Mr. Stamets says, though it is strained and his throat sounds dry. “My actions were unbecoming of a man in my position.”

 

“All is forgiven, Mr. Stamets.” 

 

He looks shocked that she would so willingly accept his apologies. He almost looks on in pure disbelief. 

 

“Well, I hope we can come to a better understanding of one another.” He continues and Michael offers him kind look.

 

“Of that, Mr. Stamets, I hope so as well.”

 

As they walk she helps him with the oil lamps, learning quickly from observation what the appropriate setting is for them for this particular time of day. He thanks her. She wonders if perhaps they both were too quick to judge one another. 

 

Lord Lorca’s study was as large as Lord Sarek’s library. One could not help but give credence to the tales that this house seemed to stretch into eternity, into the unknown. There could be a room inside his study, amongst the many shelves of books, hidden and obscured from human vision.

 

The Lord himself sat in quiet rumination, facing away from her so only his profile was visible to her eyes. His fingers steepled in front of him.

 

“That will be all, Stamets.” He spoke slowly and with authority, it was a clear and fine line between master and servant.

 

Stamets retreats and leaves them be. 

 

“Miss. Burnham,” Lord Lorca says before rising and straightening his overcoat. His pause is his inspection of her, thoroughly and momentary. “Welcome to Gallowglass.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” She replies politely and with a practiced automaton curtsy. It is what good, well mannered little ladies and governess’ should do in the esteemed presence of their employer. 

 

His lack of dialog however uneased Michael. Surely, he must be done critiquing her appearance by now. 

 

“Is... is something displeasing about my attire, sir?” Michael finally asks him, he smiles then moves around his desk towards her. 

 

“Not at all.” 

“My onyx appearance perhaps?” 

 

Lord Lorca’s smile broadens, his hands go behind his back. 

 

“No. Your guardian, Lord Sarek, was quite descriptive of you.” 

 

Her throat dries as she realizes she has spoken out of turn and rather pointedly. 

 

“I beg pardon, sir, I-”

“All is forgiven.” He cuts in gently. 

 

In the dimness of the room the clock strikes the hour of five, as if on a self imposed schedule, for his movements are routine in their motion, he goes to the oil lamps to light them higher to brighten the room.

 

“I assume Stamets has informed you of my condition,” the man says. “Nasty thing. Quite uncomfortable at times.” 

 

“I have only read about such afflictions,” Michael comments, he turns his head towards her.

“Really? Do you find self education for your own personal pleasure and benefit or to further your knowledge as a governess?” 

 

Michael thinks on it for a moment before answering,

 

“Both, sir.” 

“I myself cannot fathom holding only one interest of study as my sole reason for being,” he goes on, “Knowledge is power, is it not, Miss. Burnham?”

 

“One type of power, indeed, sir.” 

 

Lord Lorca resumes his place at his desk. 

 

“And what do you think of your new charge, my niece?” 

 

Niece... hardly the word in Michael’s mind. There is little to no familial resemblance she can see within the child and the man who stands before her. Not in manner, accent, attitude or countenance. The two were indeed a breed apart. 

 

“A very intelligent young lady, sir,” Michael begins. “However she has some nerves which are quite alarming at times.”

 

Lord Lorca chuckles and scratches his chin, Michael can just make out the faintest of scars there. 

 

“Alarming is one way of putting it,” he says. “And do you think a young woman such as yourself will be able to break her of these nerves?” 

 

Michael sighs, smiling amiably. 

 

“I can only strive to put my best effort forth.”

“Tell me, Miss. Burnham, for I am if nothing a curious man, why did Lord Sarek take such an interest in a person such as yourself?”

 

The question was coming, as all men of his stature and station ask it. She bites back the bile in her throat, for it is a question that may be made out of curiosity but it is bred in ignorance and heaves a throttle in her belly that stokes the fire of her inner rage. 

 

But her face is placid and again, as all women in her station should be, polite.

 

“I still ask myself that question, sir,” Michael begins. “He owed nothing to my parents. From recent memory he has played an active role in my upbringing though he had no reason to.” 

 

“And yet he did. Gave you the finest education for someone befitting the status of being his ward, even as far as a blood relative, encouraged you to read and write and pass on what knowledge you have to others. It is most peculiar, even you must admit.” Lord Lorca says and she nods.

 

“I do, without question, concede to that, sir.”

 

A few beats of the heart pass between them in silence as he steps forward, inspecting her more closely and giving her a visible look into his eyes; so pale, blue and intrusive. Frightful... alluring.

 

“There is a profound intelligence to you, is there not?” He says quietly, almost to himself. 

“Thank you, sir.” Is all she can utter, the fear that Sybok is hiding behind a mask of Lord Lorca’s face brims to the surface and she must look away for fear he will suddenly appear to corner her and hurt her as he seemed to take such pleasure in before. 

 

A butterfly effect of humiliation swarms through her to land in the pit of her stomach.

 

“That will be all, Miss. Burnham.” 

“Thank you, sir.” She says again, curtsying and departing from where she came. She feels her cheeks are hot from embarrassment, from being so openly looked at as if she were something he wished to buy. She had never felt so open to one person before, as if he could see every crack and seam of her; not even Sybok with all his threats and evil leers had ever made her feel so... nude. 

 

She passes the silently moving figure of Mrs. Landry along the way, the woman’s eyes like that of the paintings, moving and following her. Burning holes through her. She is accustomed to being looked at, but it was a sinister way in which the housekeeper seemed to always be just around the corner from her. 

 

Stamets did not wait for her on the other side. She finds her way back to her room, forgoing dinner in place of reading and calming her own nerves. She doesn’t wish for the other servants to see her in such a state. The Sight had never been clearer, the voices had never been more audible than when she was in the presence of that man.

 

As if he could hear their silent cries and words of... what? Cautioning, fear, anxiety? They were clear and yet so far away; like overhearing voices in a closed room. Only bits and pieces came through.

 

_ Man... unsafe... the house... death... underneath. _

 

“Lord Almighty.” She whispers, finding her small brass crucifix among her possessions. Kneeling at her bed, she whispers a prayer for her sanity, her safety, her parents, for the Sareks and to help her find the strength not to go mad in this strange and wondrous house. 


	4. Chapter Four

“How many rooms are there, exactly?” Michael asks Stamets, Sunday has come at last and with it a day off from Sylvia’s studies as she observes Christ from the chapel on the grounds. Lord Lorca is not in attendance. Sylvia runs and plays on the lawn, watched over by Michael, the dogs, and as company, Stamets.

 

“Dozens,” Stamets answers. “Many boarded up and closed off. The house is generations old, you see. Many of the rooms have fallen into disrepair.” 

 

“Surely his lordship can afford to repair them.” Michael says and Stamets nods.

“He can he simply will not.” 

 

Sylvia chases the pack of dogs as they run and guard her and play, one large hound, Zeus, in particular. Michael smiles, happy to see the child out in the light of day and not closed off from the world. A child should always have time to play. The ability to take the child outside has become more of a frequency much to the surprise of the whole household for it is given without prompting by his lordship.

 

“How long have you been in his lordship’s employ?” Michael asks, feeling more at ease with Stamets than upon their first few encounters. He has made strides through the weeks to be more accommodating and quite frankly, kinder. 

 

“I came here as a footman when his lordship’s late father was still alive, so did the gamekeeper. I was the current lord’s valet, eventually I became the butler.” Stamets explains. 

 

“So you’ve been here longer than anyone?” Michael says and he nods.

“Well, not including the late Mrs. Staff.”

 

Michael was about to ask what happened when Sylvia comes running towards her, the pack not far behind. The governess was quick to learn their names, habits and that they would surround Sylvia carefully as she ran about at play. They were extremely protective of her, guarding her in ways Michael had only seen in wild animals; as if she were their young. 

 

“Miss. Burnham, come and see!” Sylvia tugged Michael by the hand, dragging her towards the pond. The girl was almost out of breath as they made their way to the water’s edge. 

 

At the edge, where the water was clearer to them, Michael spotted the necklace. 

 

Curious, that such a delicate looking thing be in the pond. 

 

“Is it treasure?” Sylvia asks excitedly. 

“Possibly.” Michael says, leaning down and reaching into the frigid water, her hand growing cold instantly. 

 

Her fingertips barely brushed the dainty white pearl when an image flashed behind her eyelids; she was falling, she had been pushed, she was tumbling and her head was cracking open like a fruit. Her brains were falling out of her skull, someone was standing over her... she was falling- she was pushed- she was- villain!  _ Betrayer _ !  **_Judas_ ** ! 

 

“Burnham, Burnham, wake up!” She was roused from her nightmarish fit, sitting upright only to be held down once more by the sturdy arms of Detmer. She was on the divan in the sitting room in the servants quarters.

 

“How... how long?” Michael asked quickly, taking Detmer’s hand.

“Roughly an hour, maybe a little more. You just... you went stone cold. We thought the life had left you!” 

 

Stamets appeared behind the maid, easing her away with a gentle hand and helping Michael into a sitting position he held out a glass of water.

 

“I... I am so sorry. I do not know what came over me.” Michael says, unable to truly understand what had happened to her.

 

“Has anything like this happened before?” Stamets asks her, feeling her pulse. Was he a doctor as well as a butler?

 

“When I was a child I would sleepwalk but I’ve never blacked out before. Perhaps I am simply exhausted.” She deflects, her lie somewhat convincing. It wasn’t that she was lying about this particular ailment ever happening to her before, she simply wanted to appear well enough to 

continue working.

 

_ Please do not send me back... not back to Sybok... _

 

“Did I do anything terrible?” She asks Stamets, her eyes pleading with him to tell her the truth.

“No. You simply fainted and couldn’t be roused.” He explains to her simply, but with a worry in his voice she never thought he would have for her. 

 

“I have informed Landry to have your dinner prepared in your room tonight.” 

“Please, it will not be-”

“It is,” Stamets cuts in kindly. “You have been working too hard and with little break. His lordship will understand.”

 

Michael didn’t want to feel coddled or be given special treatment; and it would give another reason for Landry to dislike her. 

 

The woman was intelligent, but it was often misplaced. For someone with such a watchful, keen eye her judgments were often made out of paranoia, at least that’s what Michael tended to believe. 

 

Landry believed everyone was out to take her job. The staff was already small enough as it was and Detmer and Owesokon didn’t outwardly appear to have any aspirations to advance their position; at least not in this household.

 

There was one thing that indeed made Landry stand out from the rest of the staff. Once, while stretching her legs and reading her book, Michael had happened upon Lord Lorca’s study.

 

Upon hearing the door opening her first instinct was to hide. She still felt very out of sorts when it came to the master of the house and they had had no contact since their last meeting two weeks prior.

 

Michael knew already from living in the great house this was not the time of evening or night the master would ever leave his study- if he ever left it at all. 

 

Peering around the corner she couldn’t help but wonder who it might be. And her answer was quickly delivered. 

 

Landry appeared in the hallway, quickly and quietly as a thief in the night. Her footsteps were light and she disappeared as eerily as she had appeared. 

 

From a young age Michael was discouraged from entertaining thoughts of such a salacious nature. It was not done in a good, upstanding and god fearing houses.

 

The young woman’s mind wandered and before she knew it she was sick to her stomach with the things she was thinking.

 

Why would an unmarried woman- a servant- be in the company  _ alone  _ with the lord of the house?

 

At first Michael rationalized it as Landry was the housekeeper therefore had every right to request a private audience with his lordship to go over matters of the house. On the other hand the time in question was peculiar. For it was not a suitable time for any woman, regardless of position or station, to be alone with a man. 

 

The circumstances of her quick and silent departure were also questionable. 

 

Then again it was also none of Michael’s business when, where and with his lordship conducted his personal matters with. 

 

Of course another way to know was to simply ask; not Landry or his lordship outright of course. 

 

Michael found Detmer and Owesokon in Miss. Tilly’s room. She had given Sylvia a puzzle to solve so that might solve one of her own. 

 

_ Don’t forget about the necklace,  _ a voice reminded her.

 

“Can we help you Miss. Burnham?” Detmer asks demurely.

 

“I wanted to apologize for giving you all a fright yesterday, I do not know what came over myself.” She offers. The redhead nods in understanding, Owosekun stands there. 

 

“What became of the necklace?” Michael asks, for she must know what sort of trinket was capable sending her into such a state.

 

“Mrs. Landry collected it and gave it to his lordship. A lost family heirloom, or so we have been told.” Detmer answers.

 

Good, she mentioned Landry. An easy transition to make now.

 

“How long has Mrs. Landry been in service here?” Michael asks, lifting a sheet cover indicating they may talk and work at once. Owosekun nods to her friend. A favor with their work in exchange for information.

 

Michael had learned herself as a maid and through experience that the ears of house maids were never to be taken for granted.

 

_ We hear everything,  _ she thinks.

 

Detmer takes the other end of the sheet and together the three set about their work.

 

“Four years,” Detmer answers. “I came here with her, you see. She was opportunistic then and more so when she arrived here. She was prepared to sell any of us down the river if it meant an advancement.”

 

Michael thinks it an accurate description.

 

“Did she and Mrs. Staff get on?” 

 

Detmer laughs and her companion smiles.

 

“Not from the first. They were both sickly intent on overthrowing the other. But Landry was a hard worker and Mrs. Staff had nothing to go on. Until...”

 

“What?” Michael implores.

 

Detmer swallows, her friend hands her another blanket.

 

“Let us not insult the other, Miss. Burnham. You have seen Landry at our master’s lodgings.” Detmer says and Michael admires her directness.

 

She nods.

 

“So have we and Mr. Stamets and Mrs. Staff,” Detmer goes on. “She thinks she is above reproach, she thinks she’s so sly. But she leaves bread crumbs for all of us to find because she  _ wants  _ us to know, to see the indiscretions. It speaks volumes of both master and servant. Owosekun heard rumors about her, didn’t you?”

 

The dark maid averts her eyes, going about her duties as if Detmer hadn’t mentioned her at all. Michael remembers once being just like her, the maid had no idea how much power she truly had. 

 

“Owosekun, you can tell me.” Michael says gently.

 

The other maid sighs, fluffing pillows with vigor.

 

“She won’t speak,” Detmer tells Michael but from her apron she removes a small chalkboard and white chalk, handing it to her friend who takes it reluctantly.

 

“Why will she not speak?” Michael asks. “If she understands us surely she can-“

 

“She no longer has that privilege,” Detmer says, touching her friend’s hand. “Her previous master tried cutting out her tongue frightened her into not speaking at all.”

 

Michael’s heart wept for Owosekun. Another reminder that not all those like herself were as fortunate as she had been in life.

 

“Go on,” Detmer says gently to her friend.

 

With long fingers, Owosekun begins to write. When she turns the chalkboard towards Michael the governess frowns but is not impolite.

 

A single word is etched onto the blackness:

 

_ Witch. _

 

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Michael feels an itch to touch her crucifix. She had been warned of witches during her childhood. Cautionary tales of the Hag who will come for you while you sleep to torment you in your dreams. 

 

And despite possessing the Sight, Michael cannot let them know, that she does believe in to a degree of such terrible things.

 

“Believe what you wish, Miss. Burnham,” Detmer says. “How else do you explain how she can bewitch a great lord like ours into...  _ any _ thing.”

 

Michael leaves them soon after that. The word Owosekun had written in her childish handwriting following her wherever she went.

 

She returns to Sylvia only to find the woman of her curiosity standing there, hovering like a dark vulture over Sylvia.

 

“Miss. Burnham, Mrs. Landry has been watching over me. Where have you been?” Sylvia asks.

 

“For a walk while you finished your puzzle,” Michael replied coolly, though Landry seems less than convinced.

 

“And what did you discover on your walk while your charge remained unattended and vulnerable?” Landry asks, a queer smirk on her lips.

 

The Sight buzzes and submerges itself derp within Michael’s mind, as if afraid. As if threatened.

 

_ Can you hear me?  _ A disembodied voice whispers. 

 

If Michael needed anymore confirmation of what Landry was this was it. No other had ever broken through the barriers of her mind and she had never tried to use the Sight to look into another. Another warning from Michael’s late mother... it was a gift. It was not a weapon and more so she warned Michael that looking into the minds and hearts of others could be a devastating experience.

 

So Michael had closed and bolted the door of that extension of her powers entirely. And yet this woman invaded it with ease.

 

_ Yes, I can hear you,  _ she replies.

 

“I merely wished to stretch my legs. Miss. Tilly is an able girl. I did not think she was in danger in her own home.” She says firmly. 

 

Landry’s smirk widens, her teeth pearly white and clear of deformity.

 

_ You are out of your depth, welp,  _ Landry taunts. 

“Little girls always need looking after, Burnham.”

 

Michael feels her fist clench at her side when Landry lays a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. The young girl doesn’t realize what is truly being spoken, the terrible things being said that she cannot hear. Michael is thankful for her ignorance lest she be scared. 

 

_ You are not my better. I do not answer to you,  _ Michael pushes strongly against Landry’s mind and is pleased when the woman’s smirk begins to falter. 

 

Then she cuts in a blow that forces tears into Michael’s eyes; Landry had conjured a memory of Sybok sneaking up behind her, forcing his body against her in a secluded room... it’s dark, he breathes heavily against her neck whispering filthy and disgusting things to her. 

 

Michael fights back, kicking at Landry’s violating probe. 

 

_ Did he take you? Your own master's son, you’re nothing but a whore!  _

 

Michael sees Landry’s hand move to Sylvia’s hair, playing with the red curls in an almost motherly way.

 

Losing all sense of decorum, her momentary lapse hurtles a push into Landry’s mind forcing her to feel every ounce of Michael’s anger and fear that she had felt in the memory the woman had brought to the surface.

 

_ I can make it worse if you like,  _ Michael warns.

 

The battle of the minds suddenly ends, with both women collecting themselves slowly and subtly.

 

“Your no longer needed, Mrs. Landry.” Michael says, crossing her hands over her stomach. The two women pass each other like lionesses sizing the other up. 

 

_ I am the lion,  _ Michael tells herself.  _ She is the carcas stealing hyena. _

 

Landry leaves without another word. 

 

“Are you alright?” Michael asks Sylvia, moving to her knees and examining the girl for any trace of harm. Her guard is down, she would never be so foolish again. 

 

“Miss. Burnham I’m fine.” Sylvia groans when Michael runs her hands over her body, checking for damage for blood for anything that could mean her life was in danger.

 

“Miss. Tilly,” Michael begins quietly. “From now on if I should ever leave you alone again I want you to lock the door and you should open it for no one but myself.”

 

“What about the maids?” Sylvia asks. 

“Not them either.”

“Mr. Stamets?”

“Only I.” Michael cups the girl’s cheeks. “ _ Only _ I.”

 

“What about his lordship?”

 

Michael licks her dry lips.

 

“Not even his lordship. It is our secret, yes?”

 

Sylvia thinks for a moment, pondering this new rule. She slowly nods.

 

“Good,” Michael says with relief. 

“Are you scared, Miss. Burnham?” Sylvia asks, in a small concerned voice. 

 

Michael shakes her head and lifts Sylvia into her arms.

 

“No. No, I am not afraid.”

 

It happened before Michael realized it, as it had with Master Spock, this sudden and enriching affection she felt for the child. Perhaps it was because she would not have children of her own. 

 

Perhaps it was for some other unknown reason. All Michael knew was when she saw Landry standing over Sylvia her first instinct was to claw the woman’s eyes out. 

 

Sylvia was  _ her  _ cub now. She would not allow the hyena into her pride. She would till her last breath, she realized, die for the girl if need be. 

 

_ She cannot have her,  _ Michael thought strongly. She realizes she’s been swaying Sylvia like a baby, rubbing her back in circles, humming something long forgotten, until the girl is dozing peacefully in her arms.

 

“No one will take you from me.” She whispers, a promise she fears she will have to deliver on when it comes to pay in full.

 

Night came, dinner was served and though Michael attempted to eat she kept feeling Landry attempt to lance her mind once more. The woman sat at one end of the table, acting perfectly normal. Every lift of her fork was painful, her brow was creased with a thin layer of sweat and her heart continued to palpitate in irregular beats. 

 

_ Is it the necklace you want to know more of?  _ She heard Landry’s voice whisper.  _ I can show you if you open yourself. _

 

Michael didn’t answer verbally or through her mind but the temptation was strong. Landry was baiting her, she realized. She would not fall for it, she would not nibble at the simple morsul that begged to be taken. 

 

She tried to finish her meal but the pressure at her temples continued to throb. She had expelled too much energy earlier to keep fighting and suddenly she found herself rising. 

 

“Pardon me, Mr. Stamets, but I fear I am not well. If you will excuse me.” Michael waits for him, he stands and nods. She was sure Landry was brimming with pride now.

 

“Of course, Miss. Burnham. Do you need an escort?” She shakes her head.

“No. I can find my own way. Goodnight.”

 

As soon as she ascends the stairs and begins making her way back she feels the pressure lessen. Landry is not following her then. Michael deduces the woman has been at this far longer than herself, honing her ability to see inside another person’s mind. Michael began to understand why her mother had warned her of such things. Once the power had been tasted it was very difficult not to give into it further. 

 

Landry had given in and all herself to the power long ago, of that Michael was sure. 

 

The music, ever present, guided her through the house, lulling her and calming her mind. But she realized she had not been traveling to the destination she had intended. It was as if the music was luring her elsewhere; a place she should not go. The door was like any other door in the house; simple and without decoration. Located on the north wing and it was unlocked. 

 

Turning the knob and pressing gently it opened to a lighted staircase leading in only one direction: up. She could feel cold air billowing down gently and realizing it lead to the roof she couldn’t help but wonder who might be up there. If the lamps were lit in the corridor of the staircase someone must be there.

 

Ascending was easy now that her mind was clear of Landry’s infernal pestering. The enticement to know the origins of the necklace was still high in Michael’s heart. But she would fight the urge to know more, for she knew Landry would take no issue in telling her all of the sorted details. If it affected Michael so much in a negative way what did it do to Landry?

 

The staircase did indeed lead to parts unknown for her, the roof was separated by another door, this one made of brass with an ivory white knob. The air was cold on the roof, the wind stronger. She had never been so openly high up before. 

 

And there, amongst the darkness surrounded by the glow of oil lamps resting on the ground, was his lordship. He was observing the stars through a telescope. Fearing she was intruding she turned to leave when he took notice of her.

 

“Burnham?” He questioned, she paused and turned back, no point in trying to leave now that she had been seen. 

 

“My lord.” She greeted him pleasantly. “I... I did not know you were up here.” 

“I come to here to watch the heavens,” he answers, taking a few steps towards her. “I was not expecting company.”

 

“I shall take my leave then. Goodnight, sir.” She turns to leave again when he speaks,

“What brings you here, Burnham?”

 

Half turned away she gestures with her hands,

 

“I was walking back to my room and got a little turned around. I am still growing accustomed to the house.” She explains and he’s still coming towards her.

 

“Yes. It takes some getting used to. If you are not paying attention it will lead you in circles.” 

 

He was standing only feet from her, her eyes glanced towards his telescope and he noticed this.

 

“Have you ever seen the stars through a lense?” He asks and she shakes her head.

“Lord Sarek had one but I was not permitted to use it.” She says, thinking of her childhood with a quaint fondness yet it was muddied with restrictions.

 

“Would you like to?” His question quickens her heart, she flushes and sputters.

“I... I could not.” 

“Why not?” She has no room to continue evading him. His lordship takes her hand in his, as if it is an automatic response, and guides her towards the telescope. She’s shaking, she’s never seen anything quite like it before, nor had her hand held in such way by a man like himself.

 

His lordship’s hand is cool against hers, she would’ve thought his extremities would be freezing due to their altitude, but he did not appear outwardly bothered by it.

 

Now standing before the telescope he gestures with his hand, 

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Michael had seen the action performed before so she knew how to imitate it, it’s not that she didn’t know how it’s that she was nervous. Would she see the face of mars or the rings of saturn? What wonders lay beyond the looking glass?

 

Lowering her face and closing one eye she presses her open eye to the scope. It is not the rings of saturn or the face of mars she sees but the constellations, the heavens in all their breathtaking awe.

 

She gasps lightly, a smile she cannot contain spreading her lips. The butterflies swarm in a dizzying dance, moving into her limbs. The Sight... sings.

 

“Beautiful, is it not?” She hears his lordship say.

“I have never seen something so beautiful. Have you?”

 

Michael cannot see the look that colors his cheeks, or the way his eyes roam over her bent body as he wishes to run his fingers through the curls in her hair. 

 

She does not see that while her gaze is pointed skyward his is directed only at her; she doesn’t know he wants to tell her he has seen something far more beautiful and it is why he was up here at such an hour to distract him from it only for it to find him, as if fate would allow for nothing else.

 

“No, I daresay I have not.” He says instead.

 

After a few minutes Michael feared she was taking up too much of his lordship’s time. He had come here for a reason, most likely for fresh and air some solitude. Though he was constantly secluded she wasn’t sure what sort of solitude could be out here that was so different from locking himself in his study. 

 

He looked younger under the stars, but pale and his eyes stood out once more in the darkness. 

 

The Sight whispered lovely things, though she could not understand. They hummed and sang in his presence. They pulled her towards him... as if the tether were reaching out again-

 

Michael straightens herself to her full height, he’s looking at her and remembering her training she turns her eyes away. A woman should not look a man in the eye, the implication of such an act suggested only sinful reactions.

 

Then Michael realized they were alone on a chilly rooftop. She was in a position to not need a chaperone but... certainly there were still situations that called for it? 

 

“It is late, my lord.” Michael says.

“Quite right,” he agrees. “Before you leave I should like to ask about your health. Stamets informed me of your... fit yesterday.” 

 

Michael felt her cheeks warm further, that he should ask if she was well and that he knew of the incident embarrassed her but she knew it was not out of the realm of his power to inquire after the well being of one of his employees. She was after all in charge of his niece- if that is what Sylvia was to him- and the child’s own well being.

 

“It was nothing. I think I stood up too fast, perhaps I had not had enough to eat.” She excuses, but she knows full well why she had fallen into such a state. The necklace, the taunting piece of shiny jewelry that Landry herself hung in front of her nose with the promise of its story and its purpose and why affected Michael so.

 

But she could not rightly tell his lordship that. He would conclude she was mad, in need of a doctor, in need of a asylum. A horrid place where many enter and few return. She would not let herself be taken to such a place. 

 

“I hope, Burnham, you know that as your employer I have only the best interest at heart for you. If you feel you need to tell me something, I am more than willing to listen.” His voice is firm but kind, reminding her of her guardian, Lady Amanda. She had said something similar once too. And though Michael felt she could trust her ladyship to an extent she never did tell her or anyone for that matter what torments Master Sybok had put her through.

 

But what was Michael to tell him? That he had a witch with horrible intent living under his roof?

 

Michael offers a congenial smile.

 

“Thank you, my lord.” She says, her eyes still downcast.

“I should also like,” he pauses, stepping towards her for a moment, “That you should look me in the eye when we speak.”

 

Shocked by his request she cannot help but look at him now, then she stumbles over her words when his trenchant eyes are already meeting her own. She cannot... it was inappropriate. It crossed too many lines drawn ages ago between man and his servant. 

 

“I do not think, sir, that that would be proper.” She says quietly. 

“Why not?” 

“I am not your equal, sir, and if I may be so blunt... even if the color of my skin were of a paler nature I should not think it prudent for me to take such liberties.” 

 

There was a heavy silence and for a moment Michael feared she had said too much, gone too far, assumed too many things she had no right to. He did employ many people of various skin colors, of this she had noticed; the gamekeeper, Owosekun, Landry and herself included. Did he also ask them to meet his eye alone on a rooftop? That was another thing: they were alone. If they were in the company of her peers or his own would he make such a similar request?

 

His lordship sighs and nods curtly. 

 

“As you wish, Miss. Burnham.” He says and she nods, thankful he has given into her request and surprised he did not put more effort into convincing her. 

 

“Goodnight, my lord.” Michael says, another curtsy. “And... thank you for allowing me to look at the heavens. It is truly a wonderful thing.” 

 

With that she takes her leave, the song of the Sight keeping her warm along her journey back to her room. Once there, she sighs and begins the burdening chore of changing for bed. Her corset is old, in need of refitting. She had seen the horrors of what the contraption can inflict upon a woman’s body should it be neglected. She would not let that happen to herself. 

 

As she changed and her eyes swept across the room she froze. There, lying on her desk, was the first letter she had penned on her first night in Gallowglass. Half dressed she rushes to it. The seal had never been broken, there was no apparent damage to the envelope, the ink was not smeared and there appeared to be no trace that this was a copy, rewritten by another hand. It was her own hand indeed. 

 

_ What is this?  _ Michael thinks wildly. Who or even what was playing such games with her? Her first suspect foremost was that Landry was having a marvelous laugh at her expense. But if it was Landry, Michael knew there would be damage to the letter or at worse it never would have been returned to her in the first place. 

 

Shuttering her window, lighting a fire she climbs into her bed which has grown more comfortable to the needs of her restless body. She tucks an arm under her pillow, tempted to remain awake until she no longer can to see if such a creature would slink into her room again. 

 

But Michael falls asleep within minutes, lulled by the never ending melodies of the piano. As if the music was made by the house itself...

 

And it was then, in her last seconds of consciousness so delicate that she would not remember them in the morning, she realizes something odd. While on the rooftop with his lordship, the music had not stopped playing. But Michael wouldn’t remember that detail come morning, or the mystery of the necklace in its entirety, because, come morning, she would be awoken by a terrible scream that erased all other thought for the coming months. 


	5. Chapter Five

Michael was dreaming, she was sure of it. The halls were quiet, the oil lamps turned down to a low setting, the music continued its enchanting melody. She felt compelled to follow it, to reach the end of its rope. To hear it played in full, to meet the orchestrator of such beautiful music.

 

Along the way she met the gamekeeper of whom she had had the least contact with. 

 

He wore his uniform, he held out his hand,

 

“Spare a drop of blood?” He asked in a hollow voice. Michael felt annoyed he should stop her, didn’t he realize the importance of her errand?

 

To be rid of him she looked at her hand, the knife beaten and old, the blade chipped, perhaps from it meeting bone. Her own dagger hand covered in blood.

 

She raised her bloody hand and smeared it across his face, he sighed as if in relief and then was on his way. When she looked down at her hand again the blood was flowing a deep crimson but for her safety and health she feared not. It was not her blood after all.

 

Michael continued on her quest; she heard the sound of Sylvia playing and calling her to join her. The idea was enticing, to divert from her path and to make merry with the child. But she refused to be distracted. 

 

The crimson stain on her hand had spread to her white nightgown, from her collar to her belly. The knife felt foreign and familiar in her hand.

 

The music grew closer.

 

When Michael rounds a corner an elderly woman with her mouth slack and her neck bent in a horrid direction is blocking her way, her dress flowing out behind her like black smoke.

 

“Do not go child. It is the siren’s song.” The woman said, her outstretched hand with her ring and index fingers missing exposing bone, muscle and blood. 

 

Michael was not afraid of the ghastly figure only of the darkness which protruded from the dress the dead woman wore for she was truly dead. 

 

But the governess pressed on, moving through the sickly sour smell of death. The woman hovered, turning her body to watch Michael go,

 

“Remember your mother, child, remember.”

 

But Michael pushed the odd woman’s warning away. For the music was just within reach. The hallway towards the door seemed to grow closer and yet stretched on. The music now as vivid as a beating heart.

 

_ The soul of the house itself. _

 

Another figure moved to stand in her way, one which she did not recognize.

 

A woman of great esteem, Michael decided. A beautiful gown of pink and blue lace with a yellow ribbon. An ornate fan clutched in her lovely fingers. The delicate and beautiful pearl necklace around her neck...

 

The specter was all that stood between Michael and the music.

 

“You did not heed their warning,” The woman spoke. “You have free will, you may make this choice. But know this, Michael Burnham, once you enter this room your soul will belong to the house.”

 

Michael listened closely to woman’s words, a trail of blood flows gently from the the side of the woman’s head beneath her hair and down her small ladylike shoulder. 

 

She nods, side steps the pale figure and places her hand on the door knob.

 

“It is what she wants.” The woman warns lastly before disappearing.

 

Swallowing Michael can feel the blood stain seeping through her clothes to wet her skin beneath, the knife has disappeared yet she feels it’s weight all the same. She turns the knob, a faint click then pushes it open. 

 

A wet crunch follows the doors opening, a gnawing fleshy noise and as her eyes focus she sees the horrid, terrifying thing she was warned against.

 

The music continued to play, louder than ever before. But before her is a sight that sends her flying backward in a state of pure horror.

 

Those eyes, those  _ teeth,  _ the blood. The nasty business of it sends her running for her very soul, knowing she is being chased. The cry of a hound far away forces her to run faster; doors slam shut to her, she trips on her gown.

 

She rolls over onto her back just as the beast lands atop her, covering her in its predator’s scent.

 

She didn’t cross the threshold! Surely her soul must be safe, be immune from the clutches of this horrific beast. It’s gaping, sharp, black maw is descending upon her face, gushing with drool and venom as she turns her head to look away pressing her face into the floor beneath her. 

 

She screams and then...

 

She wakes. 

 

Someone in the house is in agony, for the screaming in her head translated into her waking life. She rubs her face, the sound of someone running and hurried voices. A gunshot stills her and brings her soberly into a waking state.

 

Opening her door she follows the shadows of the running servants. Michael catches sight of Detmer’s red hair and soon all the familiar faces she has come to know are at the foot of the imperial staircase.

 

Stamets is on knees over a body for all she can see is the bloody slippers and broken legs though the rest of it is obscured by the servants.

 

Clutching her robe tighter about herself she descends a few stairs. Another form is also kneeling over the body and when they rise to their full height she stifles a gasp for it is his lordship himself, hands bloodied.

 

Their eyes meet for a brief time and she breaks the intimate contact, severing it on her volition.

 

“It’s done,” a voice says coming from the front door. The gamekeeper stands there, his musket tip smoking slightly. “The dog went mad.”

 

“Where is it?” His lordship asks, his voice rough from being roused from his sleep at such an early hour.

 

“In the carriage house.” The gamekeeper replies.

 

It was strange to Michael that only hours before she had been in private company with his lordship, he had been well dressed and composed and even charming and far too courteous for a man with the position he was blessed with. 

 

And now, in only a white shirt and his black trousers and bare feet, bloody hands, did he give the appearance of being nothing more than ordinary. It was strange to see ones master in such a state of undress and even more uncomfortable given her own. Never had she seen Lord or Lady Sarek in such a way.

 

“Who is it, my lord?” Michael found herself asking. 

 

It was then that Owosekun came forth, producing a blanket for Stamets to cover the corpse.

 

The only piece shown still were the bloody tan slippers sticking out from beneath the material in a cockeyed comical way. 

 

The Sight reached out to her...  _ look and see, you know who it is. _

 

No, she would not. The soul had left the body, all was in god’s hands now.

 

“Mrs. Landry.” His lordship finally breathed, gravely too.

 

“Where is Miss. Tilly? Surely she will have woken and been frightened.” Michael says and his lordship nods in agreement. The girl’s nanny, Mrs. Myers, slept not with the others but in her private apartments in town with her husband as she was fortunate enough to have the means to travel to the house each morning.

 

“Detmer, Owosekun, set about cleaning this up and have Conner help you. I do not want Miss. Tilly coming down for her breakfast to see such things.” He spoke authoritatively, firmly but there was a sense of kindness in his tone as there always was when he gave orders. 

 

“Stamets, wake the gardener if he is not up already and have him help you carry Mrs. Landry to the carriage house. I’ll send for the doctor come morning. Miss. Burnham,” he pauses to approach the staircase. “You will see to Miss. Tilly, be sure she is not too shaken by what has happened.”

 

Michael nods and for some strange reason she cannot understand, she fears being separated from him. She fears something terrible will happen to him.

 

“Mr. Culbar,” His lordship says, turning to the gamekeeper and finally using his name. “You and I will check the grounds. Something spooked the dog enough for it to find its way inside and attack Mrs. Landry, I intend to discover what it is.”

 

Michael watches as everyone sets about to perform their tasks. She turns to leave when his lordship speaks her name once more, 

 

“And Miss. Burnham, be truthful with her but I trust you will refrain from being graphic.”

 

Michael accepts her mission and with a fearful heart she begins making her way to Miss. Tilly’s room. Realizing the child must certainly be in a state she quickens her step. 

 

Michael thinks of her nightmare too and instead of making her want to hide it only invigorates her to get to Sylvia. She promised to protect her, she promised. As she ran in an unladylike fashion she felt as if something was behind her, following her, like in her nightmare. 

 

Upon reaching Sylvia’s room she found it locked. A moment of panic passes quickly when she remembers the promise she had made Sylvia make to her.

 

Knocking softly she whispered aloud,

 

“It’s Michael, Miss. Tilly. You can open the door there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 

Her words felt like a lie. The door clicks with the locking mechanism being released, then the small pale face of Sylvia appears.

 

The girl throws herself into Michael’s arm and she holds her tightly.

 

“Shh, it’s alright now. Nothing to cry for.” For the child was indeed crying, madly and hysterically.

 

“I heard something terrible! Oh, what has happened Miss. Burnham?” Michael lifts the child more securely against her, closes the door and locks it. She carries the girl back to her bed and climbs in beside her.

 

“There was an accident, one of the dogs hurt Mrs. Landry.” Michael explains gently, wiping Sylvia’s tears as she spoke. “She is dead.”

 

“Oh!” Sylvia gasps and Michael nods.

“She did not suffer,” another lie, “She is with god now.” Most certainly another lie, for a woman like Landry had already sworn her allegiance to another more darker being long ago.

 

“And... the dog?” Sylvia asks for it was to be expected as she loved each animal with the innocent affection only a child could possess. 

 

“It was sick and in great pain and had to be destroyed.”

 

Bottom lip trembling the little lady closes her eyes as clear innocent tears spill down her doll like cheeks. 

 

“There was no other way?” Sylvia asks after a time. Holding her closely, the girl’s blankets and dolls all arranged in the perfect order to offer comfort, Michael sighs.

 

“No, there was not. I am so sorry, Miss. Tilly.”

 

Glancing up at her governess Sylvia wipes her eyes. 

 

“Is everyone else alright?” She asks fearfully.

“Yes, yes everyone else is fine. We are safe now, his lordship is seeing to it.”

 

Sylvia kisses Michael’s cheek.

 

“I am so happy you are here.” 

 

Taken aback by the girl’s affection, one that Michael herself had not felt since her mother passed on, it took her a moment to recover. 

 

“As am I.” Is all she can say.

 

Despite Michael’s own protectiveness of the girl she had never dreamed Sylvia would be as giving. She could see the beginnings of a bond growing between them becoming stronger day by day. 

 

She feared it would hurt them both in the end. But for the time being, she held the girl until she fell back into a restful slumber. 


	6. Chapter Six

When Michael woke again it was daylight and tearing the covers from her body, realizing the late hour, she raced to dress. When she entered the kitchen she gave out a sigh. Everyone looked as haggard and worn as she.

 

An allowance was made, Stamets informed her, for all of them to take the day for themselves given the circumstances of the night before. 

 

It was an order given down from his lordship. 

 

Detmer and Owosekun walked to town, of course they invited Michael but she wished to stay. Not because there was nothing of interest in the village but because she wanted to pick Stamets’ brain a little.

 

“What did the doctor say?” She asked as they arranged the library together. Despite the order given by his master, Stamets was eager to remain busy. 

 

“A lady like yourself should not wonder about such things.” He says, but she can sense he wants to tell someone. 

 

“I am not a lady, Mr. Stamets.” She reminds him and he smiles. 

 

“The doctor called it a mauling. The dog was far more vicious than we realized. To think it played with Miss. Tilly and showed no sign of madness.” He says, though Michael wonders if they are of the same mind on the matter. Zeus was not a dog prone to such behaviors. 

 

“Did Culbar and his lordship find anything that could have set the dog off?” She asks, moving a rather large stack of books, he helps her by taking half and lightening her load. He shakes his head. 

 

“Nothing. Even the other dogs, though agitated in their kennel, could not pick up a scent.”

 

It is in his voice, Michael doesn’t need to use her Sight to see that he doesn’t believe it. Zeus was massive but a gentle giant. It had never displayed even an ounce of aggression.

 

Except... 

 

“Could Miss. Tilly have been in danger?” She suggests, knowing that Mr. Stamets knew the dog’s temperament towards the girl. It was protective of her as all the dogs were. 

 

“How would we know that?” He asks. 

“The dog only behaved agitated when Miss. Tilly seemed in danger or when it sensed she could be in peril.”

 

Stamets shakes his head, organizes a few books before answering, 

 

“Who would wish to harm Miss. Tilly?” He asks, but Michael sees the blush on his cheeks and the sweat forming on his brow. He does know. He knows  _ something.  _

 

“Why would Landry have been out last night?” She asks instead.

 

“She is-  _ was _ \- the housekeeper. Perhaps she heard the dog enter the house. It was not uncommon for her to wander the halls at night.” He suggests then faces Michael fully. “Why does it feel like you are interrogating me, Burnham?” 

 

“A death has occurred under this roof, Mr. Stamets, for a lady such as myself it is quite shocking.” She replies simply, holding out another stack of books to him. 

 

He grins, taking them easily enough. 

 

“I thought you were not a lady.” 

 

They exchange a knowing look. Yes, they were of the same mind. He wanted to tell her something but was holding himself back. She needed to gain his trust a bit more. She needed more time. After helping him for two hours, Michael checks on Sylvia. Mrs. Myers is keeping the girl’s mind distracted with games and other forms of make believe. She wants to see the dogs but she is not allowed.

 

His lordship wished to keep the dogs isolated for the time being in case another suffered as the other had. Michael had watched from the front steps as Culbar carried the body of the animal out into the trees to bury it. What was more eerie was watching Landry’s body be carted away on a wagon after the doctor had finished his examination, the white sheet soaked with her blood. 

 

Michael soon found herself outside, wrapped in her cloak, following the gamekeeper. The Sight told her she had nothing to fear, that he was not dangerous however he was secretive. He omitted the same refusal to divulge what he knew just as Stamets had. 

 

“Hello,” she calls out to him, with the dog over his shoulder he turns and she waves. He doesn’t move as she comes closer. Once within reach of him she offers him a kind smile. “I do not believe we have been introduced. Michael Burnham.” He nods.

 

“Hugh Culbar, game, gate and groundskeeper.” He replies, adjusting the weight of the dog on his shoulder. Even in death the dog was still immense, but he was tall and broad with long athletic legs. 

 

“May I join you?” She asks him and he frowns.

“Nasty business burying a dog.” He says, attempting to dissuade her. 

“He was a good thing in life.” She tells him but he shrugs.

 

“Not all good. Follow if you like.” He goes back to the way he was originally intending with Michael following alongside him. 

 

Silence drags on as he leads her deeper down a path and eventually veers off towards a small clearing. Grown over mounds adorn it. How many dogs had been buried here?

 

A shovel is already there waiting for him. 

 

“Do you bury a lot of animals here?” She asks him when he gently places the dog wrapped in a blanket down onto the earth. He removes his jacket and she looks away out of propriety. 

 

“A few. Some of the peacocks who wander too far and get killed by the wolves.” He tells her and she swallows but the Sight continues to tell he is a man who can be trusted.

 

“I see, how horrid,” she responds blandly. He lifts the shovel and sets about his task. “Did you know Landry well?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Don’t get to know many people in the house. It’s the outside that’s my business.” He answers. 

“Have you known his lordship very long?” 

 

He nods this time.

 

“Since I was young,” his answer surprises him. “I’ve lived in Gallowglass most of my life.” 

“How did you make his acquaintance?” 

“I was a pickpocket in London, living on the streets. He found me and brought me here.” 

 

It was a nice story she supposed. It reminded her somewhat of her own upbringing. Neither had been raised to be a gentleman or a lady, but given a chance at bettering themselves in a different way that didn’t compete with their masters.

 

“Has there ever been a Lady Lorca?” She asks him, recalling the ghostly figure from her dream of a lady in blue, pink and yellow with the pearl necklace. 

 

“Not for years.” He answers. He’s dug deep enough now, he drags the dog to the hole and lowers it in. 

 

“What happened to her?” He’s lifting the shovel as she asks, he takes a step towards her and towers over her small frame.

 

“Why don’t you just ask him. I’ve got work to do. The inside might stop but the outside doesn’t.” He replies gruffly, telling Michael off in the process. She nods, understanding he is indeed a busy man and does not wish to be bothered by her any longer. She departs the way they came. 

 

So, it was her master’s wife who had appeared to her. She wrapped her cloak about her tighter as a chill crept over her body. A fog was setting in and it swallowed the sun. She quickened her pace, but as sure as she could barely see in front of her, she knew she had lost her bearings at some point. For the path was now rough under her feet and she was sure it was no longer the way she must go to get back.

 

Turning madly, trying to find a landmark, she tried to retrace her steps. It didn’t work. She knew the fog would eventually lift, but with the fear that some animal that spooked a dog so large into attacking someone he knew reminded her why she shouldn’t be out here alone. She called for for Culbar but there was no answer. 

 

“Hello?” She called but again, no answer came to ease her nerves. 

 

Chin up and a fresh breath taken to steady herself she kept walking. The grounds were large and there was no way she had wandered so far as to be on another property. Time did seem a strange thing and she was beginning to fear she had no idea how long she had been out.

 

She walks a few more feet before her foot catches on something and she nearly falls. She catches herself, glancing down it’s a stone part of a larger path. She follows it through the fog.

 

Soon, Michael discovers something odd and out of place. It is an old foundation of sorts, abandoned and broken apart. She can just make out steps that would have most likely lead into a castle.

 

A tower with a large hole looked above her through the fog.

 

It was foreboding and other worldly, enticing and alluring. It felt like discovering cursed treasure. Yes, you were rich but at what cost to yourself?

 

Michael examines the ruins, a sigil carved into a stone plaque. It looks like two falcons clasped at that talons with one line above them and two at their sides.

 

Perhaps it represented the holy trinity? Or some kind of trinity...

 

A twig snapping forces her to whirl about in the direction it came from, her heart pounding and her adrenaline coursing through her.

 

“Whose there?” She demands in a strong voice.

“Fear not,” a familiar voice answers. “It is only I.”

 

Appearing from the shadows dressed in black with hollow dark eyes is his lordship. Michael has seen the contraption only used as clear spectacles before. But the lenses are black. 

 

She bows quickly, forgetting her place for a moment.

 

“My lord,” she says quickly. “You should not be out! Your eyes-“

 

“Are quite safe for the time being, I assure you.” He says kindly, coming towards her. 

 

“A recommendation from my doctor,” he explains. “Only in light such as this. They are rubbish indoors though and I cannot read with them for they are too dark to see the printed words. An uncomfortable paradox.”

 

Michael feels relaxed at his pleasant tone. 

 

“You have discovered the ruins of the original family home,” he explains, beginning to walk among the old castle gone to waste. She follows him. “What do you know of old houses?”

 

She shrugs. 

 

“Very little I am afraid.” She answers. 

“Best not to,” he says. “They are often deeply rooted in war and bloodshed. Tales not for the faint of heart.”

 

“I should like to think I have heart, my lord.” Michael says and he chuckles.

 

“That is because you are young,” he says. “You have not been ruined, like this place.” He pauses to glance at the remains of his familial home. 

 

“But you do not know me, sir.” She says and though she cannot see his eyes she swears she can feel them on her, even though his black spectacles.

 

“Would I be so inappropriate to ask to know you?” 

 

Michael swallows at his question. She was not entirely sure how to answer it, thankfully she didn’t have to.

 

“How are you after last night?” He asks and she sighs.

 

“It was a shock, indeed. Miss. Tilly was quite upset by it all.”

 

He nods, a grim look on his face. 

 

“She should not have to worry of such things,” he says and it almost sounds like he regrets something. Michael wants to ask him of Sylvia’s heritage. There was no way she was related to his lordship.

 

Any fool with eyes and a brain could see there was no resemblance. Even if he was her uncle, even if the father was a leprechaun from Ireland, there should have been something that indicated they were related.

 

Michael’s desire to know the truth about Sylvia nearly caused her to ask, but she restrained herself. What business did she, a lowly servant, have asking about the heritage of a child under the roof a great lord? 

 

It didn’t make Michael care for Sylvia any less, but what could drive a powerful man like Lord Lorca to take a child who was clearly not his own under his protection? 

 

“I am hosting a few gentlemen and their wives next week,” he announces suddenly. “All business and very boring. But I should like to present Miss. Tilly to them, I would like you to be there as well with her for she seems to calm more when you are around.”

 

Michael nods, she did have a calming effect on the child. The girl often looked to her governess for cues when it came to speaking with others. The girl’s delivery and manners had improved since Michael’s arrival; Sylvia was never rude but she a had knack for saying everything that was on her mind and that would not do for a good little lady.

 

“Very well, my lord.” Michael concedes. She hated parties for it was always a time when Lord Sarek would bring Michael out like some prized exotic animal to be ooed and awed over. She would perform for them, they would ask her questions testing her intelligence. 

 

They would compliment how civilized and bright she was for  _ someone like her _ .

 

“Despite last night I hope you have not thought of returning to Vulcan.” He says suddenly, and Michael realizes the thought of leaving had never occurred to her. Perhaps someone else would have turned tail and run and despite her fears, she couldn’t bring herself to leave.

 

“I had not given the matter any thought, my lord.” She admits and he smiles.

 

“Good, I am sure you miss it but Miss. Tilly has flourished since you came. And I must say I have never heard Mr. Stamets speak so highly of anyone that was not himself.”

 

Michael feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Such compliments were a foreign thing to her. All she could was offer a demure thank you.

 

“Do you not miss Lord and Lady Sarek?” He continues, they are walking the path again though the fog hasn’t yet lifted.

 

“At times I do but I am well settled now. I would like to see them again one day but I stay busy to keep my mind occupied.” She assures him, hoping his lordship was not planning to send her away! 

 

Why compliment the progress she’s made with Sylvia only to get rid of her? Michael admonished herself, she was being silly and insecure. 

 

“You have been an asset, Burnham.” Is all he says and the words cause a flutter to form beneath her breast to fall steadily in her belly. She did not know why it gave her such a feeling, that at the time could only be described as elation, to know he thought so highly of her. 

 

“Ah, here we are,” he says and she stifled a gasp when she realizes they are walking the drive back to the great house. She had not even noticed he was guiding her back.

 

It was curious to Michael the stark differences between Lord Lorca and Lord Sarek. Her guardian had rarely complimented her in the ways her new master did. He did not inquire after her well being or her health, he saw that as a woman’s job to look after the girl in that way. 

 

It was her mind he took a greater interest in. Whatever she was as a human being he left in charge of someone else. 

 

“I hope you mean what you say, Miss. Burnham,” He says, climbing the stairs. “That you do not plan on leaving us any time soon.” He clarifies for her benefit. 

 

Holding her hands together in front of herself Michael offers a warm smile, one she now found herself reserving more and more for his lordship.

 

“I do not see any reason to leave, my lord.”

 

To say Stamets was shocked to see his reclusive master walking in through the front door, with the governess no less, would have been an understatement. He fussed as he helped to remove his lordship’s cloak,

 

“I should like to be informed if you are to take a stroll, my lord.” The blonde man said. “What if something happened?”

 

His lordship laughs warmly and pats Stamets on his shoulder.

 

“I have a condition, Stamets, I am not an invalid. I think I should like to take dinner with Miss. Tilly tonight in the hall.” 

 

Both Michael and Stamets raised their brow in surprise. Since her arrival his lordship had preferred to eat in solitude and she had never seen him interact with the child though she knew it must happen occasionally for Sylvia knew him and mentioned him. 

 

Michael resigned herself to the bombastic reaction this would have on Sylvia; she was picturing the little lady having a frightful time deciding what dress to wear when-

 

“And Miss. Burnham, it would please me if you joined us.”

 

Michael swore she heard Stamets gasp. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Michael had been imaging Sylvia’s turmoil in deciding what dress to wear for dinner, now she found herself in a similar situation. So much had happened in the last twenty four hours, so many unforeseeable things. 

 

Tragedies and blood, nightmares and strange reclusive lords. Old family castles going to ruin and being forgotten, taken by time itself. 

 

What an oddity Gallowglass truly was. There was something to be said of the rumors and lore that surrounded it. 

 

Michael had no lovely gown to wear, she only had three dresses. She chose her Sunday dress; navy blue with white trim. She had been told it accented her skin tone, she wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or ignorance. 

 

When Michael arrived to fetch Sylvia the girl had indeed gone through the entirety of her wardrobe.

 

Upon seeing the girl’s anxious state she couldn’t help but wonder if his lordship had as many nerves as either of themselves.

 

_ But he is a man,  _ she reminded herself ruefully,  _ they do not shake as women do. _

 

Michael had seen cruel men, benevolent men, obtuse and uninterested men alike. But she had never seen a fearful man. It was not their way, for if a man were a coward he was not a man at all. Men were bold and courageous. They were not soft and breakable like women.

 

But something inside Michael longed to break such idiotic beliefs. Every creature felt fear, it should make no difference of their gender.

 

It was an odd way of thinking, she decided. What made men so impenetrable towards such soft attributes and women so susceptible? 

 

It was not so, she decided, and one day perhaps long after her own time, society would see how backwards they had been. 

 

_ Let those fearless men work in a kitchen or a great house like this, or a factory for ten hours at a time or longer with no food or drink. Let them have their babes torn from them, let their bodies be used in cruel and horrible ways, then tell me if they are unafraid. Tell me then that they are not breakable. Let them see sickness, disease and heartbreak. They would not endure as we have.  _

 

Michael had seen the hands of factory women, rough and hard as claws. Their backs hunched, their knees ready to buckle, but did they?  _ Did they break then? _

 

_ Let them see as I have seen and no more will they say women are the softer sex.  _

 

And so, it was time to dine with a man who had never seen the inside of a factory, never spent ages toiling away at work that never ended.

 

A resentment formed that had not existed before. She was to break bread with one of her guardian’s kind. The type who made her and shaped her and those who would continue to reshape her as they saw fit.

 

Dinner was laid out beautifully. But Michael felt uncomfortable being waited on by Detmer and Owosekun. She had felt she had been formulating a type of friendship with them, now an awkward tension clung to the space around them.

 

Lord Lorca himself seemed not to be bothered by this, and why should he? 

 

“How are your studies, Miss. Tilly?” His lordship asks after a time. He notes how the girl looks to Michael for an answer. The governess gives her a gentle look and the girl opens her mouth to speak, 

 

“Very well, your lordship.”

 

Michael finds it strange that if he is her biological uncle that she does call him as such. Maybe their connection was estranged...?

 

“And what kind of student is Miss. Tilly, Burnham?”

 

Michael swallows a sip of water,

 

“A most agreeable student.” She answers. 

 

Michael watches as Detmer and Owosekun moved about the room, performing their various tasks during dinner. Generally speaking it was Stamets orchestrating the meal, there was only one footman and he was aiding the cook downstairs.

 

However this did not seem to be an abnormal occurrence simply another quirk of the household. 

 

“Miss. Burnham,” His lordship says. “What areas of study do you find most interesting?”

 

Michael had been asked this before, that and many other questions, so much so she could almost predict them coming.

 

“I find the sciences and mathematics very intriguing.” She answers, and she waits for the laughter and groan. 

 

_ Surely a woman can not comprehend such equations!  _ She could hear him say. Instead, to her surprise,

 

“Have you ever read Wave Theory of Light by Thomas Young?” He asks her and she takes a moment to realize he hasn’t poked fun at her but instead continued the conversation. 

 

“I have heard of it but Lord Sarek did not have a copy for my use.” She says. 

 

“You are more than welcome to borrow it from the library. I must admit I am a bit obsessive when it comes to books, I must own at least two copies of everything.” He chuckles a little at his own neurotic behavior. 

 

“As a safety precaution?” She quips. 

“Exactly! Not everyone takes as great a care with their books as they should.” 

 

Michael found his lordship to be an interesting character indeed. His first initial appearance to her had been under more than awkward circumstances. He had frightened her, despite the Sight telling her conflicting things. They sang beautifully within her while the feeling of caution remained.

 

His lordship was a perfectly capable and pleasant host. Why the seclusion then? 

 

Of course, Michael could not deny the curiosities of the house and the man and even the staff. In moments with her employer such as these, where he was charming and cordial, she almost forgot a woman had been brutally mauled by a beloved pet the night before and that said dog had been destroyed. 

 

Zeus had been so gentle it was still horrifying to think he was capable of such ghauling brutality. It had never been in his nature to be anything but a sweet, albeit large, animal. 

 

And then there were the phantoms of her dreams which she still could rationalize as being a figment of her imagination as she had not seen them in her waking life. Only in her dreams and nightmares had such apparitions come to her. 

 

Michael slid her knife through the rabbit meat upon her plate, it had been a meal she was accustomed to eating. However upon looking at the sumptuous food in front her her stomach twisted into knots.

 

She could suddenly and acutely hear each grinding bite being devoured by his lordship as well as Miss. Tilly. It was so loud all other thought or sound could not break her from the moment.

 

A black fly paced beside her hand on the white linen tablecloth. And for a moment she expected Landry to suddenly appear. 

 

Upon thinking of the dead woman an image appeared in her mind of the grotesque corpse that had only hours ago been sprawled on the foyer of the house.

 

Michael not actually  _ seen _ the body, the only person who identified Mrs. Landry had been his lordship. 

 

_ Stamets describes it has a brutal mauling... could anyone have truly known who was lying on the floor? _

 

Someone with intimate knowledge of the corpse in question could have. Michael swears the meat of the rabbit twitched, that she knew in vivid and disgusting detail what Landry’s mutilated body had looked like.

 

The wine wasn’t wine to Michael anymore but plasma siphoned from Landry. She swallows hard, and reaches for her water glass instead. It’s cool but moves like ink down her throat.

 

“Are you alright, Miss. Burnham?” Sylvia asks and Michael’s first thought is to tell her to stop eating the food. It’s not rabbit... it’s not wine! 

 

She nods her head. 

 

“Perfectly alright,” she replies, raising her fork and forcing herself to devour the meat in front of her, coercing herself to chew and swallow. 

 

_ It tastes like rabbit...  _

 

Why had her mind brought forth such horrid and morbid images? It was sickening to find herself thinking such things. 

 

After dinner was finished and cleared they adjourned to the drawing room. Not  _ that _ drawing room upstairs or the even more mysterious study where his lordship spent the majority, if not all, of his time deep in study or music. Michael tried to think, was the music playing during dinner? Was it playing now? She found she couldn’t focus on anything other than the happenings of the room at that moment. 

 

The tea being poured, the smell of tobacco from a pipe, the comings and goings of Detmer and Owesuken and Stamets. The thought of the rabbit meat from earlier being something far more sinister still twisted her gut. 

 

_ It tasted like rabbit, it tasted like rabbit, it- _

 

“Do you play, Miss. Burnham?” His lordship’s voice is as sharp as the intake of breath she takes at his question. 

 

_ Was there music playing? Yes- no... was it? _

 

“I do, some classics.” She responds, lifting her teacup from it’s saucer. 

“Play us something.” He suggests, flicking a match into the fire. Michael looks to Stamets who briefly meets her gaze. His eyes are soft, as if to say “I’m so sorry”. A look one gives someone who has suffered a loss. 

 

Michael rises confidently and walks slowly towards the piano. It doesn’t appear to be capable of producing as grand a sound as the one that comes from his lordship’s own personal drawing room. 

 

This was not an uncommon occurrence in Michael’s life. While under the guardianship of the Sareks she had been forced to endure such proposals from their guests. Lady Amanda had insisted Lord Sarek not be so cruel as to goad the girl into performing like some pet. But endure it she did and always to the  _ grand surprise  _ of their esteemed guests.

 

Tonight would be no different. 

 

Michael chose something she often did, Beethoven’s Für Elise. It was a relatively older piece, but it was something her musical instructor had used as a test to see if she had the ability to only somewhat master it. She had bested the old man, playing it blindfolded. Memorization was something of a talent for Michael; she did not consider herself a musical prodigy and she was not but she was a talent when it came to her stubbornness and want to prove others wrong. 

 

She knew she only excelled because of her fear of failure. She would learn languages, memorize arias and musical notes, and she would not fail at any of them; even through tears and being beaten down and told how worthless she was, she refused to give up.

 

Placing herself in an elegant position on the bench, she removed the piano cover. Her footing was appropriate and she was about to press the keys when she felt someone behind her. Sylvia, Kayla, Owosekun and Stamets were all in her line of view. All except one key player. 

 

Swallowing subtly she began to play. 

 

She began as she had been instructed, with precision and with poise, with balance and with an open ear. She played through the piece, choosing to ignore his lordship’s presence behind her. She assumed he was inspecting her fingering, as he was such a devoted pianist himself. 

 

Through the piece a strange breeze seemed to tickle at her earlobe, distracting her. Was he breathing on her? No, the others would appear far more appalled if he did such an intrusive and inappropriate thing. 

 

The breeze was coming from elsewhere, trying to take her out of the moment and to confuse or besmirch her. Some unknown and deliberate force. The Sight seemed to suddenly rear back and she was nearly forced to rip her fingers from the keys for they suddenly felt burning hot. 

 

Her fingers slipped, an offkey ringing resounded through the room and Owosekun cringed. But Michael did not stop playing. She felt a wave of embarrassment sweep through her but she played through it all the same. Something was trying to tamper with her skill. In all her years, not since she was a pupil, had she ever made such a mistake. Her tutor would slap her knuckles with a yardstick if she so much as  _ almost  _ slipped up. She had taken to the lesson well.

 

In her ear and in her mind she swore she heard Landry’s laugh, felt the woman’s smirk, felt the fly against the nape of her neck. 

 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity the piece came to an end. Her hands were shaking so she hid them against her navy blue dress. Sylvia applauded, as well as the maids and Mr. Stamets, but it was a deafening sound that only burned her embarrassment even brighter and hotter. She wished they would all stop cheering. It was almost worse than if no one said anything at all.

 

Being in any form of spotlight, good or bad, was not foreign to Michael but she detested having all eyes on her. It had been that way since she was very young and it had not pleased or encouraged her then and it did not now that she was older 

 

“Well, Miss. Burnham,” she hears his lordship say over the stem of pipe. “A valiant effort.”

 

Michael turns to face him, rises and curtsies with an ease that surprises her.

 

“Apologies, my lord, I promise I am not usually so distracted.” She says, hoping he believes her and not understanding why, once again, his approval should matter when it didn’t in others before. 

 

His lordship puffed a moment more.

 

“Do you prefer your books as opposed to music?” He asks conversationally, appearing to be the only one undisturbed or unaffected by her playing.  

 

“I find literature more stimulating.” She answers, the scent of pipe tobacco filling the air.

 

If there were only an open window she wouldn’t feel so constricted, so warm. As if invisible hands were tightening the laces of her corset, her chest felt smaller, tighter. The collar at her neck itched and tightened like a noose. 

 

It was suddenly stifling hot in the room, his eyes once more appraising her. There was something different in how he looked at her, different from every man she had ever met.

 

Most assuredly different from Master Sybok. When Master Sybok looked at her it felt pervasive, when his lordship looked her in the eye it felt like a challenge. 

 

A muffled yawn brings Michael’s attention to Sylvia. Glancing at the clock it was quarter past eight, time had seemed to move differently during dinner and even more since they entered the drawing room.

 

“Beg your pardon, sir, but I do believe Miss. Tilly should be to bed.” Michael announces, he pauses until he concedes, as if reluctantly giving into her. 

 

“As you wish.” He says. Michael nods and goes to her charge, holding out her hand. The girl accepts it and they come to stand before his lordship.

 

“Say goodnight, Miss. Tilly.” Michael says gently. 

 

“Goodnight, your lordship.” She curtsies though she sways a little from her tiredness. He steadies the girl with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Goodnight, Miss. Tilly.” 

 

Michael puts the girl to bed for her nanny had returned to town hours ago. The walk back to her room is quiet, lead by the oil lamps and her hand held candle. 

 

What an bizarre and uncomfortable dinner, while the company had been acceptable and not unwanted Michael couldn’t help but replay the queer sensations during and afterward. 

 

If she had been haunted in her dreams by the master’s late wife and other horrid images it was well within the realm of possibility that Mrs. Landry’s spirit should come back as well. 

 

The Sight seemed to be in agreement with her. But what aim had the woman had in both life and death? Michael endeavored to find out. 

 

Upon returning to her room she was startled momentarily by the lit fire. But once again all other things had remained untouched; she had finally posted her first letter and there was not another to send. 

 

They meant her no harm, whoever they were, she decided. There were no vipers in her bed, nothing under it either lying in wait. 

 

Her windows were firmly locked. 

 

Landry’s spirit may come to her tonight in her dreams, but Michael felt someone else was looking out for her. Whoever they were had they wanted to do her harm they would have already.

 

Perhaps even in her dreams her protector would follow. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Two days passed and the weather had altered dramatically. The skies turned perpetual grey and the first snowfall was predicted by Culbar to be within days. 

 

There had been no sign of Landry’s spirit or interference since that dinner and Michael believed that perhaps the woman’s soul had left the house entirely. 

 

During this time, after a brief period of appropriateness, Michael snuck to the former housekeeper’s room. 

 

Another housekeeper had been requested and advertised by Mr. Stamets though he was woe to believe they would fill the position anytime soon as both previous women had met horrible ends. 

 

Mrs. Landry’s room was located, unsurprisingly, closest to his lordship’s. Michael once more felt that there was something unseemly about the whole affair. 

 

The room was sparse, a trunk lay collecting dust already, a brush on the quaint vanity and a crooked mirror. A basin and picture still full of aged water. 

 

Michael used her gift to sweep the room of any foul entity. She immediately sensed rage, disgust, a musky odor and a hard drumming in her ears. 

 

Voices permeating and oozing from the walls. The bed... still untidy. Still covered in a sinful layer of bitterness, fury and lust.

 

Gasping Michael felt a presence push deeply into her mind. So deep she thought she actually heard her brain trying to keep it out.

 

She felt flushed, hot and an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation swept through her. 

 

Images of a most obscene and scandalous nature assaulted her mind as she tried to close the door to them. But they would not be silenced. 

 

_ Does it tickle you  _ **_pink_ ** _?  _ She hears Landry’s voice, as if she were beside her.  _ Did you think I had left?  _

 

_ My Gabriel will never be free of me. It is what we want. _

 

Michael grasps onto the vanity to steady herself, groaning as sharp pain strikes her temples. 

 

Something hot pools in her belly, slithering through her. 

 

_ Feel it. You are so naive. You have never tasted lust before... taste it now. _

 

A blinding euphoria takes hold of her and when she opens her eyes the bed is occupied, the room is dark but she can see the shadows on the mattress. 

 

Moans and whimpers and the musky odor is even stronger. 

 

_ I do not want to see- _

_ Yes you do. All good little ladies  _ **want** _ to see, want to know. Look what a beast lust makes of him... _

 

Michael wants to close her eyes to what she is seeing but cannot. Landry won’t let her, even in the death the woman is strong. 

 

Landry was Lucifer in the garden with a tempting apple for Eve to bite. 

 

Upon the bed the man ravaged Landry in horrible ways, frightening ways. Holding her down and spreading her open for him. Her dark skin and even darker nipples hard and brushing against his muscular chest, pinning her to him with his- oh, it was too terrible to think.

 

_ Stop it!  _ Michael tries to push the horrible sights away, Landry resists her easily. 

 

The man flips Landry over onto her knees as if to savage her like an animal. His alabaster flesh casting an alluring and tantalizing eclipse against the dark skin beneath him.

 

In a few breathtaking, hideous moments Landry had probed deeper into her mind than ever before. All of Michael’s deepest most inner personal thoughts, fears and memories were in the woman’s disembodied claws. 

 

_ Ooh, what is this?  _ Landry whispers and Michael feels every hair stand on end. The moment on the roof with his lordship appears in front of her, she’s even cold as if she standing there at that very moment. 

 

_ Look how you smile for him _ , Landry cooed, long inhuman fingers touch Michael’s hair, running over her shoulders and the horrid stench of death surrounds her, choking her. But she cannot move. 

 

_ He’s mine!  _

_ Burnham...? _

 

The scene of the rooftop and her smiles and his kindness disappeared into smoke as the room filled with hot, stifling heat. Michael swore she could feel the flesh of her hands peeling back, burning up as hell came rising up from the depths of the floorboards. 

 

_ This is the other side and it is calling you... _

_ Burnham? _

 

There was a shape appearing in front of her, humanoid but terrifying. Coming to take her, to reap her soul. Death was coming... the Devil himself. Landry’s laughter grew in madness and intensity. Michael couldn’t move. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek from her eye. She had to fight. She had to escape this evil demon. 

 

_ Let go and be with us, little sister. _

_ Burnham? _

 

Michael dug deep into her subconscious, to the point of first recorded memory of her life so small and incandescent she should not have remembered it at all. It is her mother’s face wrapped in white light, she makes faces and giggles. Michael’s soft infant hand reaches out to touch her mother’s face, to feel her, to create the first link with another human being that shall never come close to the moment she sees her mother for the first time. 

 

No other link would ever be stronger and Michael’s swears in that moment, connected to the past and the present, her strength is renewed and she can see past the illusion of drowning in hell. Her hands are not burning away to black soot, the spirit of Landry is nothing but a parlor trick being used to distract her. None of it is real.

 

And if none of it was real, Michael could defeat it.

 

_ Get. Out. Of my... HEAD!  _

 

With one final push, one that Michael swore stopped her own heart for a split moment in time, sent the hateful spirit from her mind. However the stress of the entire encounter left Michael collapsing into something both hard and soft. She was being lifted, someone said her name again but she was weightless and floating. 

 

Her mother’s face had begun to drift away... only her voice remained.

 

_ Kindness is the key to all things, Michael. Our masters treat us with very little. We must not let them make us cruel. We must be better than them if we are to better ourselves. Now, go and fetch your father. Tell him his supper is ready. Oh, no, you look a terrible fright with that hair you silly little thing. Here, I put a new ribbon on your bonnet. There, you look like a beautiful angel. One of God’s sacred creatures. Now, fetch your father. Kisses! _

 

Michael blinks in uneven rhythms as she comes back to herself. The room is dim, she’s lying on something comfortable, the music is playing and she has no inclination as to the hour or how long she has been in such a state.

 

Coming more and more back to herself she realizes she has never been in this room before. The tapestries are all wrong, she’s not in the drawing room or the library. The melody is soothing, almost a lullaby. She cannot place the composer. The fire is warm against her now cold body. Sitting up as elegantly as she can she realizes where she must be indeed.

 

The portraits carry the familial resemblance. Piercing blue eyes and dark hair, that aristocratic nose and countenance. It simply exuded an air of nobility and wealth. Paintings depicting a great gothic castle surrounded by forest and land, men in red coats on horseback with their hounds at the hooves of their steeds chasing the elusive fox. 

 

Above the fireplace hung the same sigil she had seen in the ruins of the original family home. Two falcons clasped in a duel with the three lines on the left and right and above. 

 

A persian rug decorates the perfectly preserved hardwood floors. The windows, shuttered as to be expected, the candlelight and oil lamps giving off the illusion of twilight. 

 

Standing on shaking legs she turns to face where the music is coming from. Sitting at a bench that had seen much use in it’s time with their back to her was his lordship playing in the most skillful of ways. 

 

Realizing she is standing in the room the specter from her nightmare had warned her of she feels a sudden wave of fear and anxiety.

 

_ Once you enter this room your soul will belong to the house. _

 

No sooner had Michael recalled the nightmare did the music come to a close. 

 

_ The music never stops!  _

 

Stamets’ words of warning and panic echo in her ears. His lordship raises a quill and makes corrections to the piece he is playing. So, he was the composer after all. He stills, seemingly sensing she was awake. She had forgotten to make her presence known, too caught up in the moment of being inside such a secretive room. She remembers the last woman who shared his company in this room was now in an unmarked grave somewhere, carted off in a pool of her own blood.

 

_ Once you enter this room your soul will belong to the house.  _

 

“Burnham?” He says her name lowly and turns as he speaks. He seems relieved for his eyes are soft and he doesn’t stand right away. 

 

“Sir.” She says, when she attempts to curtsy as was formality and what was proper he raises a hand gesturing her to stop. He stands and comes towards her, lifting her hand in his so quickly and suddenly she almost rips it away. 

 

The things the spirit of Landry had shown her... it was her master in those visions and it terrified her. 

 

“You gave me a fright,” he admits and she lowers her eyes. 

“I... I did not mean to-”

“What were doing there?” He asks her quickly, now that he knows there is no damage done to her his tone goes from gentle to almost fatherly, scolding her as if she were a child. 

 

Yet his hand remains tender. 

 

“I felt Mrs. Landry’s family might be interested in her things being returned to them, my lord.” The lie came to her so quickly, like lightning, that it shocked her. She was not prone to lying, she was terrible at it and she didn’t like to be caught lying. The punishments for lying as a child were brutal and more severe had she just told the truth. 

 

Michael fears he will see through it as he seemed to so easily see through every other parts of her being. 

 

“She had no family,” he explains. “No kin, no husband, no parents. Her things will be donated to the poor and to those in need.” 

 

Michael nods, her eyes lowered and her chin trembling. Will he send her away now? And what did he think of her when he found her? She didn’t want to imagine what she must have looked like... Michael cannot even begin to picture what kind of comatose state she looked to be in. 

 

Or was it worse than that? There had been a footman in the Sareks employ, Harrold, a sweet young man with a nice smile. One day he had collapsed while serving tea, jerking and twitching horridly on the floor. Epileptic, the doctor had said. A death sentence for so many. He was taken and locked away. Michael heard whispers from maids about how doctors electrocuted their patients and sometimes if that didn’t work would cut into their skulls and remove their brain. 

 

Would Lord Lorca think such a thing about her? 

 

“Burnham,” he says her name and Michael swears she hears the faint echo of the music. “I should still like you to look at me.” 

 

She shakes her head, she feels an errant curl has left her bun and it tickles her cheek. 

 

“It is not my way, sir.” She tries to say as firmly as possible. 

“Why not?” He asks and she clenches her teeth, she feels his hand grow firmer against her own. But it does not crush her fingers or damage her palm, it is almost... yearning. 

 

“I was not raised to look a gentleman in the eye.” She says and she hears him inhale slowly. 

“I could command you.” He says and she nods.

“You could. But will you?” 

 

The silence that follows is hardly silent at all, for her breath has quickened as has his own. It creates a queer harmony that lingers between them creating a harmonics of unique proportions, the likes of which Michael has never experienced. 

 

The women in Michael’s life had taught to fear men with the pallor of his lordship and the men in her own world of the same tone would be just as likely to hurt her. Men were a thing to be feared no matter who or where they came from. 

 

Master Sybok had been no great exception to this cautionary tale. He had caused more fear and terror in her life than any other man she had ever known. And while she had been as physically close to Master Sybok as she was now to his lordship the intimacy of the moment was entirely different. 

 

It was unprovoked and without the intent to do harm, of that she was sure. And the Sight... oh how the Sight seemed to cling to every fiber of the man before her unlike any person before him. 

 

He did not order her as she expected him to, once more his character surprised her. It was within his right and his power to order her to do anything he wished and when he didn’t, when he broke from that stereotype and character it threw her. 

 

It threw her to the point of voluntarily lifting her eyes to finally meet his. 

 

If the intimacy of the moment was starkly different from her encounters with Master Sybok, the physical and emotional weight of being in a closed room high above all others with Lord Lorca was immensely overwhelming in a way that was not entirely unwelcome. 

 

And yet the putrid and vulgar things the spirit of Landry had said, the tormenting heat and fear of hell and damnation... she was not Mrs. Ellen Landry. She was not the type of servant to sell herself to her master simply because he was her master. He employed her but he owned no part of her. 

 

She was free to leave him if she wished, free to seek out other employment if she felt the desire to do so. Who truly held the power, she wondered. Michael was aware of her station and her history, more so than anyone else. He may be a powerful lord in a beautiful estate in the country but he was as vulnerable as she was in many ways. 

 

Reputations came and went easily enough, and the reputation of the Lorca family was already rooted in mystery and gossip. 

 

Michael knew the limitations of her freedom as well. But that she knew them at all, that was the point. 

 

One such limitation was that his lordship may touch her... but could  _ she  _ touch  _ him _ ? Never being one to stop at the line drawn in the sand she lifts her other hand and places it over his. Another sharp inhale from him sends another odd sensation through her. That he should have such a reaction at all from her simple touch spoke volumes to her.

 

She was not a fool. She may be naive in many ways, but the look in his eye was familiar and different, unique to him. Sybok had once looked at her like she was a piece of meat and he was a wolf. His lordship looked at her like he was captivated. 

 

“You have... a delicate touch.” He says slowly, lifting her hand higher to examine it with his ill eyes. 

 

Should she thank him? No one had ever said such a thing to her before. 

 

“Are you feeling better?” He asks when she doesn’t answer. Surprisingly, she is. Despite the lingering effects of having Landry probe and degrade her mind, she does feel a kind of sereness with him. 

 

“I am.” She replies softly, now that she can meet his eyes she cannot look away. “I am truly sorry for frightening you, my lord.” 

 

“It is nothing. As long as you are still in good health.”

“Perfectly, sir.” She says a little too quickly, a little too breathy and unbecoming a young woman. 

 

_ Is this how he seduced Landry?  _

 

“That is a very good.” He says with a sigh, he looks down at her hands so dark compared to his own. Their places in the world shown through the flesh. How far apart and yet so close together. 

 

“Is it?” She cannot help but ask, wanting more than anything to continue their moment for she felt it coming to a close. 

 

The music continued to echo and she couldn’t find it in her to ask him how it was so. All that mattered was the touch and feel of him, the smell of him. That he should touch her in the kindest way she had ever been touched since her parents deaths. 

 

“Yes,” he answers strongly. “Should some ailment or harm come to you I-” he stops himself. She notices the clenching of his jaw and without warning he brings her knuckles to her lips, planting a kiss there that almost buckles her knees. “I would be very heavy hearted.” 

 

Michael is opening her lips to speak when someone knocks on the door. Her first instinct is to tear herself from him, they shouldn’t be seen like this but he holds her fast. 

 

“My lord, the doctor is here.” It is Stamets. God almighty he could not see her here! 

“One moment.” His lordship says, turning his attention back to Michael and brushing a hand over her cheek. “What is the matter?” He asks, his brow furrowing.

 

“My lord, please, he cannot see me.” She pleads with him. Realization washes over his lordship’s face and he nods stiffly. Taking her elbow in his hand he brings her towards a bookshelf next to the fireplace. 

 

“How will I leave?” She asks him and he chuckles, pulling on a marble bust of some dead philosopher. 

 

“The way I brought you.” He says with a smirk and she watches as the shelf hisses and pops open. He moves it open the rest of the way, it is heavy and he grunts as he opens it far enough for her to step through. Before she can truly depart he takes her hand again. “Follow it until you reach a door to the right, it will lead to a servant’s hall. I trust you can find your way from there.”

 

Michael nods. 

 

“Come back, after dinner.” He says and she shakes her head.

“My lord that is not wise.” She warns him, another knock makes her jump.

“Please.” He says, his fingertips grazing her cheek. She swallow and knows she should say no, knows there is no possible way she could-

 

“Yes.” She turns and runs through the corridor. 


	9. Chapter Nine

The hours ticked by at an alarmingly slow rate. She went about her usual routine, even taking Sylvia to see the dogs in the kennel with Culbar’s permission. They were fit and well and none seemed to suffer as Zeus had. Sylvia begged the man to let them out so that they may enjoy a run and so that she may play with them. Culbar knelt down to speak to the child, which Michael found to be very kind of him despite his usually gruff manner.

 

“They need a few more days, Miss Tilly. Don’t you worry. When the snow falls you’ll be making snow angels with them.” 

 

Michael noticed how all the servants seemed to be so very kind to the girl. There was no trace of disgust or animosity that would indict one to think they saw the girl as a bastard or even a nuisance. No, they all in kind, seemed to cherish her in their own way. All had, except Landry. 

 

Mrs. Landry had been the only servant at Gallowglass who seemed to be even remotely threatening to Sylvia. 

 

Yet all others treated her with gentleness and gave in to nearly her every whim as if they could not help themselves. 

 

A large wolfhound stuck her head through the kennel bars and licked at the girl’s cheeks and the girl giggles and scratches behind the dog’s ears.

 

“And which one is this again?” Michael asks Culbar.

“That there is Hecate, the goddess of magic and hounds.” He says with a mysterious tone towards Sylvia. “Miss. Tilly named her herself.” 

 

“And that one is Dog.” Sylvia points out. 

“You already named that one  _ Hog _ .” Culbar reminds her and Michael smiles. 

“I want him to be Dog now.” Sylvia says, putting her little foot down on the matter. 

 

“Very well, Miss. Tilly.” Culbar says and he lifts the girl higher up to see inside the kennel.

“Will Hecate be in heat soon?” She asks him, putting her hands down into the kennel so that each dog may sniff and lick her. 

 

It was like seeing the wolf lying down with the maiden fair. Michael sealed the moment in her mind forever. 

 

“She will, then we’ll have pups to contend with and keep me up all night.” Culbar says. 

“I should like to be there when they are born.” Sylvia says decidedly. The gamekeeper laughs. 

“We’ll see what his lordship says about that.” 

 

Sylvia looks between Culbar, the dogs and then Michael.

 

“Burnham will see he says yes.” Sylvia says and Michael swallows and clears her throat uncomfortably. 

 

“Will she?” Culbar asks, clarifying what he’s heard from the innocent child. 

“Miss. Tilly, it is not proper to make assumptions.” Michael reminds her. The girl frowns.

 

“But he does everything you say! When you asked if we could go outside he said yes, when you suggested the gardener plant more wild roses along the foundation he said yes. When you-”

 

“Yes, yes, that is all true but this is an entirely different matter.” Michael interrupts. 

“Miss. Tilly, why don’t you fetch me a few leads and we’ll walk the dogs around the kennel to stretch their legs?” Culbar suggests and the girl beams with excitement already forgetting what they were talking about. He sets her down and off she runs in her frilly pink dress and bonnet and all.

 

Culbar rests his hands on the gate.

 

“Will you see he says yes?” Culbar asks after a moment, then he looks at her knowingly. 

“I do not see why he would be more amiable to my asking than anyone else.” She defends. 

 

Culbar scoffs and shakes his head.

 

“What has he done?” He asks her pointedly and Michael is taken aback by his implication.

“I do not like your tone.”

“And I do not like being treated as a fool.” He cuts in. She breathes deeply for a moment.

“It is none of your concern.” She tells him sternly. 

 

Culbar pushes himself off the gate.

 

“In time, Burnham, you will see how much of it is my concern.” He says, warningly. He excuses himself to find Sylvia and Michael forces herself to remain where she is. If she abandons Sylvia now the girl will only ask more questions later and that she simply cannot have. 

 

After they exorcise the dogs legs for a bit Michael is worn and tired. She returns to her room, letting Mrs. Myers take over Sylvia’s care for the evening. 

 

Was Culbar trying to dissuade Michael from... from what? 

 

_ Don’t be naive, you know from what,  _ she reminds herself. 

 

Had he also warned Landry? And why was it so much of his business and concern? What stake did he have in her personal welfare or his master’s? Reputation perhaps, but he was a gamekeeper. He had once told her his business was the outside and he didn’t care what went on inside. Perhaps there was more to that than she realized. 

 

The hours continued to tick by until dinner came and she was so full of butterflies and anxiety she could hardly eat. But she couldn’t keep excusing herself early from her meals. It would draw too much unwanted attention. 

 

After saying her goodnites she crept back to the secret passage he had shown her before. The light of her candle lead her way and for some reason the corridor was less than uncomfortable. In fact it was quite a peaceful place, it almost felt holy. She felt like she was traversing the intricate arteries of the house. 

 

When she came to the door which would lead her to his lordship’s study she hesitates. Was she really doing this? And what did she expect to find or to happen when she entered? Was she expecting them to have a rousing discussion on science and the turning of the heavens? 

 

_ Don’t be foolish. You know what could happen... _

 

Did she? He had proved her wrong about his character before, perhaps he would again. 

 

Pressing her hand to the door she curls her palm into a fist and knocks. Only a half moment later it groans and there is his lordship pushing it open for her. He holds out his hand in a gentlemanly way, accepting it he helps her through the entrance. 

 

“I am glad you came.” He says with a smile that feels genuine. 

“Thank you.” Is all she can say for she is not sure yet if she should be glad she came at all. 

 

“Please, sit.” He gestures to the divan she had woken up on earlier in the day. He pushes the door closed and meets her but does not sit with her. He almost seems at odds with what he should do now. Would he make an advance on her now that the night had come and she was here once more alone with him with no interruptions? 

 

The repulsive images Landry had shown her flooded her mind once more, warming her cheeks and causing liquid heat to not only form in her belly, she now realized, but to conceive other places too. Hidden, secretive places only a woman and her husband should know...

 

Did he feel that too?

 

“Tell me about your childhood.” He says suddenly and Michael is almost disappointed. Once more he shows more of his character and becomes less and less the man she thought him to be. Why would he take such an interest in something so mundane? 

 

“There is really nothing to tell.” She says, simply.

“Come now, I should like to know if what I have imagined about you is true.”

 

Another wave of heat passes through her, another... gush between her legs, so strong she clenches them shut. She can feel his lips on her knuckles, his eyes watching her from behind as he played. The vision of him behind Landry so white, like a ghost.

 

He’s thought of her... imagined her? Wondered about what she was like? How terribly odd.

 

“My parents were from-”

“I did not ask about your parents.” He reminds her gently. She smiles and nods. She wasn’t used to talking about herself in such a way. He wanted to know Michael Burnham, not the governess or the mould made in the Sareks vision. He wanted to know  _ her _ .

 

“I was a shy child, at first,” she begins. “But then I realized the more I watched people the better I could imitate their mannerisms. My father called me a Little Copycat,” she laughs at the memory, at happier times. “I might have only been a daughter of servants, born into servitude myself, but I was happy. I can say I know what true happiness feels like. As I became less introverted I showed a natural aptitude for the written word, reading first of course the Bible. That was the first time Lord Sarek took an interest in me. I was not much younger than Miss. Tilly when my parents died.”

 

The memory of that horrible day is one Michael could have easily forgotten but she had chosen not to. She could have blinded herself from it but she didn’t. It was an accident, a horrible, terrible accident. 

 

“I am sorry.” His lordship says, and then he comes to sit beside her, but at an appropriate distance. It causes her heart to flutter all the same. 

 

“It is difficult even to this day to live without them but I persevere. After they died Lord Sarek took me under his care, for whatever reason. As I said before he owed no debt to my parents. But he did and now I can speak three languages, I can translate in them too. I have read numerous books someone like myself otherwise would not have the opportunity to. And I have had the chance to come here and know your niece, sir. It has been a fruitful and wonderful experience.” 

 

Lord Lorca’s eyes crinkle at the corners, giving him an older appearance for a moment, but he smiles. 

 

“I am pleased you are happy here despite certain things that have happened.” He says and she smiles further. 

 

“May I ask something, my lord?” She dares to ask any of her questions, she still cannot ask of Sylvia’s birthright or heritage. Her pedigree might always remain a mystery. But there were other more innocent questions she could put forth that would not damage whatever relationship was forming between them.

 

“Please.” He encourages, relaxing against the divan.

 

“Is there any truth to the stories the villagers talk about?” She asks him and his eyes seem to cloud over. He looks away for a moment. 

 

“Village lore is often steeped in some truth,” he says congenially. “But exaggerated over time. What do you want to know about in particular?” 

 

“What happened to the previous Lord Lorca?” She asks him, she could hear faintly the sound of a thunderous melody and it almost takes her out of the moment for the piano itself is silent near her.

 

“You want to know about my father?” He asks and she nods. “He was a troubled man. Suffered from terrible bouts of different illnesses. One moment he was completely lucid and the next he was ready to fling himself out a window. In the end, he did take his own life.” 

 

Michael gasps, how terrible! 

 

“I did not mean to shock your feminine sensibilities but you did ask.” He reminds her and she shakes her head. Before she realizes what she’s doing she’s come closer to him, her hand resting over his own.

 

“It was not my sensibilities you shocked, my lord,” she says assuredly. “That your father did not enter the kingdom of heaven is a tragedy for anyone to endure.” 

 

He smiles grimly. 

 

“You will find, dear Burnham, that there are many members of my family who will not meet me at the pearly gates. But I do not wish to speak of them. It is a sad tale of monsters and men and ravenous hags. I consider myself quite lucky that they are not alive with me and that I am indeed alone.” 

 

“But that’s-” she stops herself. “Forgive me, my lord, I do not wish to impose on you.” 

“You are not. Please, I encourage you to speak your mind.” 

 

So she did just that.

 

“You are not alone. You are never really alone. And perhaps, if you do truly feel this way, run towards it and not away from it. It could teach you many things. I should know. I have been alone since my parents died. It is not always such a cruel thing.” She says to him. Within moments he’s raising her hand to his lips again and it’s a relief to feel them so closely again.

 

Michael wonders what it would be like if he kissed her now. Master Sybok had once tried to kiss her but he had failed in his attempt. Then again he had tried to do many ghastly things to her. 

 

She had never wanted his so called affections, she had never wanted him to touch her or kiss her. But she found herself aching to be touched and to touch Lord Lorca. 

 

“You have a beautifully idealistic view of things, Burnham.” He says to her lowly. “Are you looking forward to the guests I shall be hosting in the coming week?”

 

Michael cleared her throat.

 

“I must confess I have never been one to enjoy many parties. Far too often I was the object of much speculation.” He smiles, his fingertips once more caressing her cheek. 

 

“It will not be long. However there is one thing I should like to give you beforehand. Well, technically two if you do not have one already.” He says and she cannot help but wonder what it is he should want to give her. 

 

“I am curious, my lord.” She tells him and he chuckles and then rises taking her with him. 

 

“Did you ever learn to dance?” He asks and her stomach drops. Dancing was one thing that was forbidden amongst her studies for Michael had been assured there would never be a partner willing to dance with someone like her. With her hand in his hand he goes to a strange looking box with a mushroom hollow beak. He makes a few actions and slowly the room is filled with the tickings and movements of sound, a waltz, Michael was sure. 

 

“My lord, I think this is out of the question.” She insists but he shakes his head. 

“Call it a way to repay you for all you have done,” he says and suddenly his hand is at her waist and he’s moving her left hand to his shoulder and cupping her right in his. “One waltz, one dinner party, that is all I ask.” 

 

Slowly he begins swaying them, she keeps looking down at her feet afraid of stepping on his blueblood toes and doing him even the slightest harm. 

 

“Up here.” He reminds her and she sighs irritatedly looking up. “Just listen.” He says, his voice dropping lower. “Let me guide you, you can trust me.” 

 

Michael relaxes a fraction more in his arms but not entirely willing to give up control yet. 

 

“Can I?” She asks, her eyebrow raising a little. 

“Yes. Now listen, one two three one two three...” He moves her about a little more but she still resists. He clicks his tongue at her when she tries to pull away. “Let me guess, it is not done.” 

 

She sighs deeply and he lets her squirm from him once more. 

 

“It is not.” She agrees. But he takes her waist again, this time moving them even without her arms holding him. 

 

“It can be our way,” he says simply. “Here, in this room. We can make our own way.” 

 

Watching him she listens to the music as it encompasses the room and themselves. The way the light flickers in ways it should not because there is no breeze, no open window, casting almost human like shadows on the walls that are not their own. 

 

It is simply the way the house operates. She swears she can hear the sound of champagne glasses clinking, the laughter of a party from long ago. 

 

The music is forlorn, it does not match the gaiety of the memories of the past that she is sure are now surrounding them. Suddenly she’s dressed in a white gown, he’s continues teaching her how to waltz and there are masked individuals that move about them trailing white smoke that does not ail her. Suddenly they are transported as if by magic and the Sight has never been so loud before. It is so bright she fears for his eyes. Surely, he must be in pain. 

 

She clings to him a little tighter as figures pass her, even brush against her. 

 

“What are they?” She asks him, her voice shaking. 

“Pay them no mind.” He tells her strongly.

“You see them too?” She asks, looking into his eyes for confirmation, for hope that she has not gone mad in this house. 

 

“I see them too. Every day, every minute.” He promises. The music grows in intensity as do the figures moving around her. She swears she sees a flash of long auburn hair, a pink and blue gown with a yellow ribbon, the dark hair of Ellen Landry. Her heart is pounding in her chest. 

 

Both evil and benevolent beings now prance among them like fairies in a glamour. 

 

“Please, make them go away.” Michael begs him, the floor is covered in thick blood staining her pretty white ball gown. He pulls her tighter against him. 

 

“I cannot. Now  _ you _ have seen them.” He says strangely to her. 

 

“What happened here? Please, tell me.” She begs him and he stops their movements. The abstract and colorful guests continue to dance around them laughing and stupid and drunk. 

 

“Terrible, terrible things. Trapped in a moment of time to forever haunt me.” He says, his eyes so lonely and sad but not cold, never vapid or cruel.  

 

“Why won’t you leave it?” She implores him but he shakes his head. 

“I cannot and you cannot imagine why.” He says, his voice thick as if there was pressure constricting him. “I should never wish you to imagine why. Please, let us just dance.” He whispers, his cheek resting against her own. “I like to hold you.” 

 

Michael presses her cheek back against his as she allows him to finally lead her entirely through the ghostly figures of the past, haunting them and their motions. She wasn’t mad. There were apparitions that roamed these halls. It wasn’t just Landry, it was so much more than that. How could he see them and why? 

 

He tilts his head back and suddenly his eyes have taken on a brighter hue and he’s moving them backward and she lets him. A darkened corner of the room, where the ghastly images of those long since dead do not hover. 

 

This is it... this is where he hurts her. Suddenly the image of Sybok comes forth but only for moments before it is banished; by what? By him? Did he also possess a second sight? 

 

“Look at me.” He reminds her and when she does the spirits seem to fade from the room, as does the light and the party decor and the music is lowered considerably. Her white gown no longer exists, a figment of a different time. “Now you see what I live with and why I would ruin you.”

 

He rests his head low on her shoulder and she wraps her arms around him, his breath so hot and sensual on her neck. She feels him, sturdy and strong made of flesh and blood not a ghost like the beings that had danced with lazy marionette fashion around them. Pressing lightly on his chest he raises his head, lying a hand on the wall above her head. 

 

And Michael makes a choice, one she might regret. 

 

She kisses him. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter but worry not!

Michael had never wanted to kiss anyone before. The natural desire her body would feel was taught to be a sin to her and all women and those females who indulged in such activities were fallen women. 

 

And yet now she clumsily presses her innocent lips to his. It was so quick it barely registered to him that anything had indeed happened at all. 

 

When it was over it took him time to recover that she had kissed him, the realization that perhaps even she felt minutely the same began dawning on him. 

 

It had been a long time since someone kissed him like that; so purely and without motive. And the maddening desire to press her into the wall and tear her navy blue dress from her thread by thread pulsed at his temples and in his chest.

 

“You... you should not do such things.” He tells her softly and to both of their surprise she does it again, lingering only a second longer than before. A real gentleman would not have let it get this far to begin with. 

 

But he had. She had seen the phantoms that haunted him daily, that never gave him a moment’s peace. There was still so much she didn’t know...

 

His lips drop open slightly upon her second kiss, he feels her small hands pressed to the center of his chest where she can feel his beating black heart. 

 

_ God, I am a coward. _

 

On the second retreat he speaks again, 

 

“You do not understand what you are doing-”

 

Upon the third kiss he feels force behind it where there hadn’t been before. 

 

_ Damnation!  _

 

He does part his lips further and takes control of their kiss, pushing her into the wall and her hands move to his neck. She is still so naive and so innocent. 

 

Nothing like Landry; sad, pathetic Landry. He had never thought in a thousand years the woman would have been so weak. She was sought after by Culbar himself to help them, but she had failed and instead the demonic spirit took possession of her instead and had roamed freely in his house. And he had been weak and foolish to think he could have resisted her for as long as he did. 

 

But Michael was so gentle, her heart unsoured and her scent so innocent and feminine. Her sweet little tongue shyly touched the entrance to his mouth, he gave in easily and without a fight. He had fought Landry, he didn’t fight Michael. He had been in lust with Landry and the mesmerizing way she controlled him and his thoughts, he couldn’t hide anything from her so it was easier to simply give in.

 

Michael was so different. He did lust after her sweet little gasps of breath when his tongue connected with her own and the way he ran his hands over her waist feeling the whale boned corset beneath and burning holes through the fabric. But she felt and tasted like salvation. 

 

However he knew the price for salvation and the longer he kissed her and held her the higher the risk of her meeting a gruesome end. Like the rest of them. The closer he came to truly loving someone, the more likely they would die. 

 

It stabs him in the chest to remove her hands from him. He rests his lips to her forehead. 

 

_ You sweet, sacred girl,  _ he thinks mournfully. 

 

“You should return to your bed.” He tells her and she looks confused and unsure. “Please. It is for the best. If you trust me, you will return.” 

 

Slowly Michael nods but she is reluctant to leave him. He opens the secret door for her and ushers her gently inside the corridor. In his mind he wishes she would move faster, she doesn’t realize what kind of danger she’s in. 

 

It was all part of the deal of everlasting love, wasn’t it? Even if you stopped loving someone it hadn’t meant the other had stopped. Sometimes they loved you in a terrible and frightening way, going to lengths you never imagined they would. 

 

“Lock your door tonight.” He says quickly as she begins her retreat. She pauses, looking over her shoulder. “Do it, Michael.” He repeats, saying her Christian name for the first time. She nods and then proceeds down the corridor. He closes the secret door, his hands shaking horribly. It is not nerves, it something far worse. He thought if he had spirited her away fast enough he could prevent the curse from coming forth.

 

Staggering towards the piano he nearly falls, a cold sweat breaking out across him as it always did when the curse became too strong. He forces himself to the piano, his fingers touching the keys and it immediately begins to soothe the burning sensations coursing through his body. He forces his fingers to move across the ivory keys; thinking of anything, forcing a melody to the surface. 

 

_ It is a shame,  _ her voice says and he finds a rhythm and he comes back to himself.  _ She is a sweet thing.  _

 

He never responds to her, never acknowledges her, it is what she wants. She put him here, she forced his hand and many other things. She had to have it her way. 

 

_ How much longer do you think you can last without speaking to me, Gabriel?  _ She asks, he feels her all around him, surrounding him and boxing him in.  _ How long to do you think the others can last, trapped here with you? You brought this on them, not I. _

 

He wants to respond more than anything, wants to tell her off but it would be useless. She had all the power, she always did. Over him, over the servants, over Landry... 

 

How many lives had she ruined, how many lives could have been saved? But no... she had to have it her way. 

 

_ I can still persuade you, you know. I can still suggest terrible things... you think because one vessel is gone to waste and rot that I cannot find another? You are too weak to resist.... _


	11. Chapter Eleven

 

When Michael arrives at her room she does indeed lock the door firmly shut and though she does change for bed she knows sleep will most likely be a hope rather than reality. She lights a fire, the winter months arriving sooner than she had been anticipating. She wraps herself in a blanket and rubs her arms and resting by the fire. 

 

_ Lock your door tonight. Do it, Michael... _

 

Spirits could enter through walls and locked rooms. What in the name of the Almighty did she need to lock her door from? It chilled her in a more horrible way than seeing dancing spirits of dead nobility. More lurid and daunting than Landry’s spirit tempting her with forbidden fruit. 

 

Michael brushes a finger to her lips. Had his lips felt so sensuous against her knuckles it was nothing compared to the way he had tasted. Even the slightest, smallest taste awakened something more deeply intimate inside her. It helped to distract her from the fear she felt in the darkness of only her candle. She was fortunate to have spares but she could not burn through all of them. 

 

Sooner or later she would have to face the night. 

 

His hands had been another matter too, holding her so strongly against him as they had danced and when she had kissed him. Michael felt a strange giggle attempting to break free from her throat at the thought that  _ she  _ a lowly second station governess did something to utterly brazen. 

 

Michael had not only touched her master but she had kissed him too. It was not like her to do such a thing and even more so do something so scandalous with her superior. What must he think of her? Is that why he sent her away? 

 

What did he have to fear that he wanted her to lock her door? Was he- 

 

What if he was trying to keep himself out? Michael moved to her bed. She wouldn’t believe it. He would not have sent her away if he had wanted to harm her, he would not have told her to lock her door. Perhaps he was trying to protect her from something... or from himself. Was that chivalrous? Michael didn’t know. 

 

And what was more she didn’t know that as she did finally begin to drift towards the land of dreams that something had stolen the keys to the servants rooms. That something dark was hunting, prowling the dark and abandoned halls of Gallowglass Manor in search of someone. 

 

It was during a dream of wild flowers, Sylvia playing and hounds running and laughing that Michael sensed that something was not quite right. It was a normal dream for her to have. It was not out of the realm of her dreams to imagine Sylvia at play in the spring when she knew the girl would flower most of all. 

 

But there was a darkness that descended over their field of wildflowers. A great wind erupted and suddenly Michael was alone in the valley. 

 

“Sylvia?” She called but the child’s laughter was miles away, the hounds stood as one pack at the top of the hill staring down at her as the clouds swirled at an alarming rate. Her dress billowed around her as the valley began to enlarge as she tried to escape it. The looming abandoned tower of the castle was her only shelter but she dared not go to it.

 

The storm clouds threatened rain but it never poured a drop. Michael knew she was standing in her dream but she felt a presence above her, something breathing on her. 

 

_ Did you lock your door?  _ An unfamiliar voice asks her, she can hear it through the howling wind and the swaying trees threatening to break off and crush her. 

 

_ Did you think that would keep us out?  _

 

Michael felt a weight on her chest and she collapsed to the grassy floor watching as eyes appeared in the clouds. 

 

Each time she blinked she feared she would wake up and see the morbid sight of a monster above her, each breath she took she was certain would be her last. She tried to conjure the image of her mother again but it was swatted away. 

 

_ Mummy cannot help you now. Wake up and see. Come and see... open your EYES! _

 

Michael opens her mouth to scream but it is swallowed in a high pitch ringing as a hand closes around her throat. She can’t see, the darkness is too great but something is keeping her from moving. She struggles to break free from it, clawing and scratching. She knicks something and she hears a guttural groan, something wet in on her finger. Blood...

 

“No... No!” She tries to scream. 

 

It’s Sybok! He’s found her, he’s finally found her. He’s found a way inside and he’s going to kill her. Hands grasp her arms and hold her down, a heavy weight is on top of her but at least her throat is free. The fire is beginning to fade, only shadows are what make her attacker human. 

 

A hand presses to the center of her forehead and she inhales sharply as she finally  _ sees  _ and the Sight is silenced for the first time in her life. The auburn haired woman in the pink, blue and yellow ribboned dress with a string beautiful pearls, her hand resting on them as she smiles and entertains her guests. 

 

“I am sorry. I tried.” A voice whispers in the dark. The images swarm through her mind as if she were really there, she can even smell the perfume of the ladies and the cigars of men. 

 

A man in black with his back to the woman sits at the grand piano playing beautifully. They are happy, they are married, surrounded by all of their friends. Michael feels the weight of years passing and of love fading away and turning into hatred. 

 

_ She is not mine!  _ A voice shouts and a woman wails uncontrollably. The woman stands over a crib with a knife, the infant is perhaps only hours old... 

 

_ Katrina, stop!  _

 

Michael is torn from the infant and she tries to return to the baby to save it. It’s in danger! Someone do something! The sensation of more time passing, maybe not years but time indeed, and the shadow of sadness and sorrow fill the walls of Gallowglass. There are no more lavish parties, no more friends who wish them well on their journey into matrimony. 

 

There is no marital or domestic bliss. It is a loveless and empty marriage, at least on one side. Michael feels the desire and obsession for her husband to love her again, that she would do anything, sell any part of herself, lie, cheat, steal and even kill. 

 

The first time he strays she threatens to kill the child again, nearly does. The second time ends in horror. Michael sees his lordship holding the dead girl in his arms, her throat hacked into so many times her head is barely attached to her neck. A terrible look of surprise on her dead face.

 

_ I did it for us!  _

 

The second time was the last time. But it wasn’t the last for her. Bloody hands are in front of her face, when she looks in the mirror she sees the former lady of the house covered in blood, her beautiful ornate gown ruined. 

 

_ Stop it, Katrina... give me the knife... _

 

She’s backing away, running and flinging herself into any empty room to be away from him. He doesn’t love her anymore, he despises her. He fears her. He only stays out of obligation. He doesn’t love her... her body is old to him, disgusting, loose. Fruitless...

 

“I cannot do this.” She hears the same voice say. 

 

His lordship is roaming the halls searching for his wife, the child in his arms as she cries without control, her...  _ red hair  _ a mess of picture perfect ringlets. He tries to consol the child but what does he know of baby girls and their needs? She’s never seen a man more afraid. 

 

_ Culbar!  _ He shouts in the dream. Outside in the cold of a foggy day the gamekeeper comes running in the memory. His lordship hands the girl to the man.

 

_ Hide her. _

_ Where? _

_ ANYWHERE! _

 

Michael sees Culbar seeking refuge inside the kennel with the massive breed of greyhounds, sniffing and licking and comforting the child as she were their own. He holds her close to his chest, rocking her and soothing her. 

 

Her Ladyship sits before a fire that is quickly growing out of control, chanting and moaning in a black tongue that not even Michael’s own mother ever dared speak of. It was a serpent’s tongue, black magic... she was conjuring something foreboding for a figure began to appear in the flames. 

 

_ Katrina!  _ His lordship tries to drag her away from the flames, she rears back and catches him in the chin with her long and yellow fingernails. It knocks him off guard as blood gushes from his chin, she pushes him towards the flame and he screams as his eyes are almost entirely singed from their sockets. He rolls away, half blind. She watches him as he tries to crawl away. She stands over him, following him with a knife. 

 

RUN AWAY! TURN AROUND SHE’S BEHIND YOU!

 

He’s crawling through the hall, blinking and trying to regain his sight. 

 

_ Do not worry, Gabriel, I have found a way for us all to be together again... _

 

She’s standing over him, pressing a foot into his back and forcing him to roll over until she straddles his waist, her legs are bruised and her feet are nearly black from filth. He’s not entirely blind and manages to stop her hand from slashing his throat with the blade. 

 

Then... 

 

Michael’s eyes snap open again in the dark and she still feels the weight on top of her hips. Someone is breathing over her, sobbing. 

 

“I... I severed the link.” The weak voice says. Michael tries to get away but she cannot move. Whoever is on top of her is too heavy. “I am a weak man. I hate her but I still want to give her everything.”

 

Michael doesn’t understand, she feels something reach across her. The scratch of a match being lit then the wilted candle beside her bed is lit and she covers her face. 

 

“Please forgive me, Michael.” His lordship’s face is creased with lines of sadness so great she cannot bear to look at him and that it would be him and not some monstrous demon that could invade her bedroom and infect her mind hurt the deepest parts of her heart. “Michael, please look at me.”

 

Something inside her snaps and she finds the strength to strike him. She doesn’t feel the instant regret she thought she would. She has never struck anyone before, though she has been hit herself plenty of times. The pain in her hand is a distant memory and she moves to hurt him again. This time he evades the attack and holds her down, but his grip is gentle. 

 

“Get away from me you coward.” She hisses, her cheeks growing wet. 

“She only wanted you because  _ I  _ wanted you,” he explains and though his eyes are brimming with tears as hers are, his voice is even. “She did it to Landry, she wanted to do it to you.” 

 

“She went mad and you killed her.” Michael says helplessly. “You killed your wife.” 

 

Shaking his head madly he speaks again, 

 

“You saw the memories. She tried to kill Sylvia many times, she killed members of the staff, visiting ladies and forced me to dispose of them. She tried seducing Culbar, mutilated his body when he did not give her what she wanted. She mamed, lied and murdered her way through our friends. But I did not kill my wife.” 

 

Michael shook her head, the former lady had warned her. If she had crossed into the room her soul would be bound here forever. Why would she warn her if she meant to do her harm?

 

“I do not believe you.” She says, her voice trembling. 

“I beg you to believe me, angel.”

“How do I know this is not a trick?” 

 

He releases her wrists and cups her cheek in his hand. 

 

“Did it feel like I was lying when I held you?” Such a personal question, she turns her face away. 

“I cannot be certain. For all I know you are manipulating me.” He gently turns her to look at him.

“It was never a lie. From the first moment I saw you,  _ she  _ saw you too. She saw what I saw in you.”

 

Michael wanted more than anything to believe him, but how could she when he had been so easily swayed by the ghost of his dead wife to come into her bedroom and try to implant the spirit of his wife inside of her? So that her ladyship may what...? Live again?

 

Yes... she wanted a living vessel, one her husband could touch and feel.

 

“I do not know anymore.” She says, sniffling. He takes her hand and places it over his heart, beating madly through the material of his shirt and through his layers of skin, muscles and arteries. 

 

“I am not the monster, Michael.” Before she can respond he descends upon her mouth and she gasps as he kisses in a way she had not kissed him before. It took her time to decide what she should do. She knew she should throw him out and leave as soon as possible. But her body was responding to him faster than she could think. 

 

There was venom in his kiss... a seductive and baleful taste that she suddenly seemed to crave more than anything. She gasps into his mouth as his tongue enters hers and she cries out as he lays his body out against her, between her legs. 

 

She isn’t Landry... she isn’t his wife. She should not let this go on but she can’t help herself. His hand moves a burning hot path up her belly to her breast, unbidden and free from her bony corset.

 

Michael is simply beside herself. She doesn’t want to deny him and more alarming she doesn’t want to deny herself. She wants him. The candle is burning lower, already only half alive. As he kisses her passionately she feels the ties at her nightgown growing looser and it is by his hand that they fall away at her neck. 

 

Once her bare skin is exposed to him his lips are there and she’s aware of the embarrassing sounds she’s making. She doesn’t know this man, not really. She has two sides of a complicated and terrible story. A story drenched in blood and murder. In demonic possession and black magic. 

 

What if he was being possessed even now? 

 

“Look at me.” She says strongly, breathily. He looks up from her neck, his eyes still their icy blue and looking at her with a heated glaze of desire. But her Sight, now that it is returned, does not warn her against him. And so she is convinced it is him. Reaching down she begins lifting the hem of her nightgown. He watches as she undresses herself beneath him, tossing it to the side of the room. 

 

Michael pushes her hands up his shirt, feeling his soft hard flesh and the blood that pumps beneath and further into his soul. His terribly haunted and tormented soul. When he is free of the shirt he comes back to press his chest against hers, her legs wrapping around his waist as she remembers the vision the demon Landry had shown her. 

 

She cringes only a moment when his hand moves between her legs to cup her mound, her legs trying to close but unable due to the man in question seated there. She relaxes as he kisses her cheeks and her neck and then further down her body to lap at her breasts and her hard nipples. 

 

“Oh...” she moans hotly and as his mouth descends upon her womanhood she covers her face once more. 

 

“I will not hurt you.” He promises and she nods but she still cannot bring herself to look. She can only feel his fingers rubbing her there, moving her wetness here and there, flicking his rough thumb against a bundle of nerves she had never realized before how sensitive they were. Then his mouth is upon her and she releases a warm sigh. 

 

It is sin, it is damnation. Her soul is doomed. But she cannot find it in herself to care. Forbidden fruit had always been the sweetest. 

 

He’s growing more confident as he slips a finger inside her wet passage and she cries out at the finger probing inside her woman’s place. His face is beside hers again, whispering and shushing her. His lips biting and licking at her earlobe gently to distract her from any momentary pain. 

 

“I know,” he whispers against her collarbone, dragging his lips across her neck and to her lips again, speaking between wet kisses. “It is meant to feel this way.” He tells her and she believes him. But it can’t, can it? Women who found pleasure in their bodies were damned women. She was a damned woman now. 

 

The candle is nearly entirely extinguished and the fire place offers little illumination. Then she hisses and chokes on a moan when she feels a second finger enter her and her eyes roll back as he slowly and thoroughly readies her body for something else. He’s touching more than just her womanhood, he’s feeling something inside of her that must surely make her a bad woman.

 

Good governesses did not feel such things for their masters, they should not. But here she was, letting him hold her, kiss her and touch her as if she were his.

 

“Please...” she begs him, her lips meeting his chest, kissing him there. “I need you.” 

 

She cannot even believe the words coming out of her mouth. Was this what he made her into? 

 

“It will hurt.” He tells her, trying to give her a way out she assumes.

“I know pain, we are old friends.” She whispers, he slips an arm under her back to lift her a little, his hand brushing against raised and scarred flesh. His eyes meet hers in a flash. 

 

“Do not look,” she begs him but he raises himself up and encourages her to roll over onto her belly, another image of what demon Landry had shown her flashes before her. But when Michael rolls over she only feels his hand touching her scars. His fingertips lightly running over the sensitive and damaged skin. 

 

Then she feels his lips kissing and tracing each one of them, pressing more passionately with each pass and she cries and moans. His hands slip to her front to her squeeze her breast, massaging her nipple and forcing her to sit upright with him pressing himself against the length of her back. 

 

“You are beautiful.” He tells her, kissing her from behind. Then he guides her onto her back again, her legs spread out unladylike before him, her knees pressed into each hip at his waist. Her chest rising and falling rapidly, her mouth has gone a little dry as she takes in the sight of his muscular chest heaving as powerfully as hers. 

 

Michael swallows as he reaches for the laces of his pants and she only watches his hands for a moment before she can look no longer. She wouldn’t lose all sense of propriety. Even if she were spread out in front of him like a wanton woman. 

 

On his knees, his pants lowered, he moves closer to her and she feels  _ him _ there. Lengthy and she fears it for a moment. His eyes remain on hers as he slowly tests her but she wishes he would just get it over with. As if reading her mind which she was of a belief he could in a way the subtle touching transforms into a hard thrust of his body inside her. 

 

She cries out then it dissipates in her throat, only shock that it both burns and pinches her deeply. As if she’s been cut. His hands hold her small hips as he begins rocking back and forth and she wishes he wouldn’t. He feels like an hot iron rod inside her... 

 

Michael feels him tighten her legs around him, tilting her hips back and on the fifth or sixth or it could have been the tenth thrust she feels like her body is growing used to the intrusion of his manhood. He leans over her and kisses her wetly, coiling his tongue with hers and she is sure for a moment she made a mistake. That the Devil himself was forcing sin into her body, coercing her and molesting her. Ravaging her like a beast...

 

_ See what lust makes him do... _

 

But Michael doesn’t believe it. He had been an animal with Landry, she didn’t feel this with him now. He may be passionate but she didn’t feel anymore pain. If anything he seemed to be taking her part in this seriously. He wanted her to feel pleasure. But wouldn’t the Devil himself also derive pleasure from pleasure?

 

“Your mind is loud, Michael,” he whispers knowingly against her lips.

“Are... are you the Devil, sir?” She asks him as he takes her with every inch of his manhood crammed inside of her. Pausing and breathing hard he shakes his head. 

 

“The Devil would never be able to touch an angel like you.” He says sweetly and she kisses him again and again. He lies flat against her again and whispers for her to wrap her arms around his neck, she obeys. One thigh is pressed into the mattress of her pitiful bed while the other is around his waist and he rears back and suddenly he’s pumping quickly and harder in and out of her. 

 

The room begins to spin, she can feel him breathing hard and groaning against her chest and her face. 

 

“Does it hurt?” He asks her and she shakes her head.

“No... please, do not stop.” She begs him, her voice once again not sounding like her own. Could she have become possessed already and neither know it? 

 

“It feels so good to touch you.” He whispers into her ear. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you. I knew I needed you.”

 

His voice is growing more urgent. 

 

Michael feels herself reaching some unforeseeable end, some jumping off point, some edge. His hand slips between them again and she hisses when he begins rubbing that same bundle of nerves he had kissed so sweetly earlier. 

 

“ _ Ah _ , no, not that.” She cries out for it is too much. It almost hurts it feels so good. 

“Trust me.” He says and she simply nods after a moment, her hands holding onto his upper arms as he slides his arm under her once more to bind her to his chest. Between his thumb and his hard, stabbing manhood she feels she can take no more. 

 

Something is coming... something she cannot control, something she’s afraid of but wants. He groans loudly and she finally looks at his face, contorted in pleasure but it looks like pain. It somehow sends the feeling growing in her belly to full force, striking her in such a deep place inside she’s almost afraid. 

 

The bed creaks with the abuse it is taking, the candle finally drowns in it’s own wax and the embers of the fire make him look like a red god. He’s holding her waist in one hand and the other has left to clench the iron frame above her head. His manhood suddenly feels bigger inside of her, not cutting her open but simply spreading her apart. 

 

The muscles in his neck bulge and his eyes close and she swears she feels a sudden euphoria and wetness flood between her legs her eyes shutting tightly to the feeling and her cheeks so warm and burning. When she opens her eyes he’s still thrusting inside of her, but it is weaker, but he’s looking between them.

 

At his manhood entering her again and again. She blushes and looks away as he leans down to kiss each breast again. 

 

After a time his lordship raised himself up to look at her, brushing her tears away and forcing her to look at him for she couldn’t now. 

 

_ No, no, no I gave in. I am sorry mama, I am so sorry! I am a fallen woman... _

 

“Michael, look at me, it’s alright. It’s alright.” He’s moving onto his side and she wriggles away to turn her back on him. In the dying embers of the fire he cannot fully see the horrible scars on her back. 

 

But he touches them anyway as he tries to comfort her. He had been so caught up in the moment, completely taken by surprise that he had even been capable of taking her so gently, he stupidly had not thought of after.

 

No woman had ever cried after he laid with them. But he wasn’t a soulless monster, no matter what Katrina tried to do to him, at his core he was not evil as she was. 

 

“I am here, speak to me.” He says gently, resting his chin on her shoulder. 

 

“I have... I have committed a terrible sin.” She says brokenly. He sighs and kisses the nape of her neck. “I am a bad woman. A worse Christian.”

 

“No,” he says, coaxing her to turn to face him though she tries to hide even through the darkness. “Michael, you are not a bad woman. You are better than the rest of us.”

 

He leans in and kisses her again, softly at first until she’s responding. They’re lying side by side, he runs his hand back over her perfectly nude form. 

 

“You are perfect and good,” he says as he reaches between her legs again her breath hitching and he feels his need for her rising again. “You are kind and forgiving,” he touches the soaking river between her legs, moaning at the feel of her. 

 

“There is not an ounce of impurity in you or that covers your flesh.”

 

Michael runs her hand over his solid manly chest, sparse hair tickles her palm. 

 

_ He smells like a man should, _ she thinks madly.

 

“You are-” before he can endear her any further she presses her open mouth to his neck. Her tears forgotten, her desire awakened once more. 

 

She sucks and nibbles at his skin, salty and tantalizing on her tongue. 

 

“I... I can’t seem to help myself.” She says almost in awe that he was the muse of her desire. She kisses his mouth before he can speak once more. She silences him with her tongue, she is so caught up in tasting his flavor she doesn’t notice him raise her leg to plant his shaft inside her.

 

It hurts but not like before. Her arms are cradled between them as he slowly and deeply canvases every inch of her womanhood. His hands are hard on her backside, his fingers splayed out on her supple cheeks as he thrusts himself to the root into her.

 

Each gasp burns him hotter than hell, each moan takes him to heaven, each kiss damns him all over again. She plants her hands flat on the expense of his chest and he cradles her head there, one hand moving to hold her at the back her neck.

 

Her fine soft hair brushing his hand. 

 

Her breath becomes more hurried and he groans deeply as he begins pumping his aching, leaking shaft deeper and more quickly until he feels his tip at her womb. 

 

Michael’s mouth drops open in silent, praying pleasure as she feels that same euphoria and ecstasy again. She cannot keep herself quiet as hard as she tries but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. 

 

Michael’s innocent moans coupled with his heavy grunting as he spears her again and again fill the room. He feels Katrina’s curse trying to take hold of him again but he somehow finds the strength to fight her off when he had never been able to before. 

 

Why was it so vastly different with Michael when it had simply been heady lust with Landry? 

 

Because Michael was stronger, because she was better as he had said. Because he hadn’t truly cared for Landry. 

 

Because he-

 

“Oh, almighty!” She cries out burying her face deeper into the wall of his chest. He holds her harder and lets himself cum inside her for a second time.

 

Planting his seed inside her innocent and pure womb. He’s panting as she is and he kisses her again anyway. Within moments of softening inside her she is already passed out. He thinks of how he should leave that it would do no one any good for him to be found here. If and when Stamets came to rouse him for the day and found him not in his bed it would arouse suspicion. 

 

But when he moved to leave Michael shifted closer to him in the small bed and he felt he could not be compelled to leave her. As he held her, he didn’t feel Katrina’s terrible curse hovering over his head. He didn’t feel it over his shoulder or in the pitch black of the night. He felt only at peace for the first time in many years.

 

With Michael close to him, he would face the consequences of tomorrow. He had come here with a miserable and horrible intent that was not his own, his mind and body being controlled by the leftover carcass of his dead wife. He would not leave it the same way. Michael had once more shown the power she had over him though he wondered if she knew it. The power she had was not wielded in the way Katrina used her own black magic. 

 

It was rooted in a different kind of formidable energy. In all the things Katrina’s spirit lacked both in life and death, Michael had an endless bounty of. He slept without the songs of ghosts and for the first time in almost twelve years, he did not play at her beck and call.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Morning came to Gallowglass Manor and when it did Owosekun was awake before anyone else. She chose to let Kayla sleep a little longer. It was so early not even the dogs were yet making any noise in their kennel, and not even Culbar had woken.

 

Owosekun preferred being an early riser, she could be alone. She didn’t dislike Kayla or take her friendship for granted for in truth she was the only friend she had, it was just that sometimes it was suffocating having to always share the space of such a small room.

 

Owosekun took it upon herself to begin changing some oil bulbs down the length of the servants quarters. Most of the rooms were empty but the halls needed to be lit.

 

Unlike her friend and companion, Owosekun did not fear the spirits who roamed the halls as she went about her business. They seemed to ignore her entirely. She had no special ability, no second sight or opened third eye. She simply felt their presence and chose not to antagonize them, for she had a great and profound respect for the dead and she was firm in her belief they were not to be meddled with. 

 

Arriving in this frigid country she learned quickly the differences between her own heritage’s crafting of magic and the ones she was introduced to. 

 

Landry had been crafty and a knowledgeable woman but she misused her gifts too often. Had Owosekun been able to speak Landry’s tongue at the time she would’ve warned her but she feared such attempts would have fallen on deaf ears. 

 

The dogs began to bark as they were fed their breakfast, the rest of the servants wouldn’t be long now. 

 

She was just rounding a corner when she heard a door open but not close. Hushed voices... there was only one occupant’s room it could be coming from. 

 

Sneaking a look she was horrified to see his lordship in such a manner of undress as well as Burnham in an equal state; her nightgown falling to one shoulder, exposing skin and the swell of her breast.

 

His lordship wraps an arm around Burnham’s waist and whispers something Owosekun cannot hear, then, even more shocking, kisses her. He releases Burnham and turns to leave only to return to embrace her again. 

 

Owosekun has decided she had seen enough and moved away from the salacious thing she wished she had not witnessed.

 

_ Another Landry, _ the maid thinks bitterly. 

 

Michael was appalled by her own behavior, she was giggling in the hall as his lordship whispered the silliest things. 

 

“I shall compose an opera just for you.” He says with a boyish grin, his day old whiskers scratching her cheeks. 

 

“No, you shall do nothing of the sort. Now be away with you before-”

 

“Suddenly worried for my reputation?” He teases with his arms around her. 

 

“Yours  _ and _ mine. I still have a job to perform.” She reminds him sternly.

 

“Quite right Miss. Burnham. Perhaps we should discuss your job performance over another  _ dancing _ lesson?” 

 

Michael gapes at him, the sheer nerve! Yet she couldn’t deny the thrill of sneaking to his study gave her.

 

“We should talk more seriously. I have so many questions.” She says and he nods, kissing her forehead, his features so soft and young looking. 

 

“I promise to answer them all.” He says strongly. 

“I shall hold you to that. Now go, before you destroy the rest of my honor.” 

 

He kisses her one last time before departing down the dim hallway to find the secret passage. 

 

Michael sighs lightly and returns to her room, filling her water basin she washes herself. She reflects on the night before. 

 

First he appeared in her room and transported such terrible memories into her mind, he claimed he was being controlled by the angry spirit of his late wife. 

 

Michael had few reasons to doubt his sincerity. It did not mean she still didn’t feel some shame for her behavior. She had acted inappropriately to say the least.

 

Good god, what would Lord Sarek say if they were discovered? 

 

Michael was not naive enough to think that because she had shared her bed so passionately with his lordship that they were to be wedded. She had heard stories of men offering such promises before in exchange for a lady’s virtue before only to leave them after they got what they wanted. 

 

But Michael couldn’t believe his lordship to be that type of man. He had already shown her he wasn’t in so many ways. 

 

Then there was the matter of her scars... those terrible roots on her back that spelled out her entire upbringing. That miserable and twisted tissue that paraded across her back, and he wasn’t disgusted by it. 

 

He had kissed them and mapped them with his hands. Even mildly recalling last night made her want to seek him out and drown herself in his body until she had no energy left to move, she could still smell him on her, the affect making her almost dizzy.

 

She had been raised to fear what went on between a man and woman when it came to the bed. That it was a hideous act only performed outside of marriage by sinners and by the debauched.

 

But if it was so filthy and horrible, why did she feel like a woman for the first time in her life? Why did the idea of his lordship’s desire for her make her body tremble in harmonious ways and the idea that Master Sybok thought of her in a similar way disgust her? 

 

For the day Michael decided to take Sylvia to the greenhouse so that perhaps Mr. Saru, the extremely quiet and reclusive gardener, could show the girl how he sustains his plants come winter.

 

Mr. Saru had been more of a recluse than perhaps his lordship. The only times she had seen him was when she told him of the plans to plant more wild roses along the foundation of the house and more grimly when saw him help Culbar carry Landry’s body to the cart.

 

He took his meals in his little cottage near Culbar’s, he hid when others were coming, he never socialized with villagers or the staff and from what Michael could tell he preferred it that way. 

 

He kept to himself to such an extent there were times she feared he might have had an accident and no one simply knew, but then the plants and hedges were always trimmed and smoke billowed from his small chimney. 

 

It was a warm day now that it was well into the afternoon when Michael and Sylvia came to call on the elusive Mr. Saru. 

 

His height was the first thing most people noticed, the second were his abrasive and large green eyes. His limbs were bony and sharp, he fidgeted madly from his nerves.

 

The next, when he did speak, was his Romani accent. It was a well known fact among the staff and the village he was a child of gypsies, abandoned long ago in the village and living off the land. 

 

Sylvia found him to be terribly fascinating. 

 

A series of “what’s that” and “these smell funny” erupted from the girl as they entered the greenhouse. Poor Mr. Saru could hardly keep up with her. 

 

“You may have a future in horticulture, Miss. Tilly.” Michael jokes at one point, Mr. Saru is less than amused though she appreciates his irritability. His work was being interrupted by a little girl and her governess. 

 

Michael wondered if Mr. Saru even cared for children. 

 

“Miss. Tilly, would you be so kind as to help with the repotting?” Mr. Saru asks, though he sounds forced to ask. 

 

“Please, might I?” Sylvia asks excitedly. He nods and directs her to where she might find the pots in a shed outside. 

 

“I do so appreciate this, Mr. Saru. I know you value your time.” Michael says when they are alone. 

 

“Of course. I have always said more children in such great houses should learn the art of plants and flowers and not just the decoration.” He says, lifting a few broken pots and dropping them into a pile. 

 

“Do you have plans for the spring?” She asks. 

“A few but I have the whole winter to think on it.” He answers, wishing to keep his work private. Perhaps he sees no reason to discuss his work with Michael, after all, she is only the governess. 

 

“Were you terribly disturbed the other night’s events?” She can’t help but ask. He saw the body, he touched it after life. 

 

Saru swallow and nods his head, looking out the window for Sylvia. 

 

“It was one of the most gruesome things I have ever witnessed.” He admits grimly. “To think a  _ dog _ did such a thing.” The last part is flippant and his tone makes Michael’s ears perk up. 

 

“You doubt the story?” She asks gently.

 

He sighs, holding a small shovel in his hands. 

 

“It is not that I doubt it I just do not see how Culbar came to such a conclusion.” 

 

Michael leans forward. 

 

“Tell me.” She says and after a moment he bends down his tall, thin frame. 

 

“The body was indeed mauled but I grew up with wild dogs, Miss. Burnham. I have seen what a rabid mad hound can do...”

 

“Yes?” She says eagerly. 

“Whatever had slain poor Mrs. Landry was far larger.”

 

“I have the pots!” Sylvia shocks them both and they jump, Saru catching her elbow in one hand and pressing the other to his chest over his heart. 

 

They frightened themselves. 

 

So Stamets was hiding something when they spoke the morning after the attack in the library. She knew it but he couldn’t say it and perhaps an innocent dog had been killed for nothing. 

 

Later, as Michael walked alone as Sylvia devoured her dinner she pondered the events of the last two months. Passing by the kennels she heard raised but hushed voices,

 

“You know as well as I something is not right.” Stamets says. 

 

“And if there is? What am I to do?” Culbar demanded, he throws something but she cannot see them. 

 

“You’re his handler, think of something!” Stamets shouts. Culbar shushes him. 

 

“Keep your voice down.” Culbar’s voice is threatening. “Do you not think I would do something? I found Landry, she was supposed to fix this! Instead she allowed herself to be taken.”

 

“Then find another.” Stamets says and Culbar groans. 

 

“Yes, because finding a witch to break a damn curse made with black magic was so easy the first time.”

 

There’s silence then movement. 

 

“You do not know what it is like in there, Hugh. I am afraid every second of my life.” Stamets says, there’s a brief sob. 

 

“So am I. I am afraid for you. If I could do something-“

 

“There is.” Another pause then retreating footsteps. 

 

“I will not,” Culbar says his voice shaken. “I have considered it and I refuse. I owe him too much. I will not be a murderer.”

 

Michael stifles a gasp, her hand over her mouth. 

 

“And what of his debt to you after all you have done for him?” Stamets asks, his anger coming through once more.

 

“He’s repaid it again and again. You know what I was before I came here. He bought me my freedom, I could have been hung. I  _ still _ could be hung.”

 

“So his silence about your past equates to loyalty?” Stamets says in disbelief. “He is only holding it over your head so you will not betray him.”

 

Footsteps come closer to the door where stands with her heart pounding. She needs to leave, she needs to walk away before she hears anymore. But she can’t seem to allow herself to be pulled away. 

 

“You know nothing of it!” Culbar says in a deadly tone. Was he more than just a pickpocket, Michael wonders... could it have been worse? The Sight never suggested he was dangerous. But theft was hard labor for some years, not death! 

 

“His silence and tolerance about  _ both  _ of us is good enough for me.” Culbar says, his voice softening. 

 

“Yes, because men like him can  _ always  _ be trusted.” Stamets says, dejectedly.

 

“I will not bring him harm and I will never stop protecting you. I promised I always would.” Culbar says, there is something in his voice that reminds Michael of how his lordship speaks to her. The tone and implication.

 

As if the two were lovers. Michael balked at the idea! Lovers? Could it be? 

 

“I should go.” Stamets says and before Michael can listen more she hurriedly leaves, as silently as she could. Michael realized she was quickly growing uncomfortable with the amount of interpersonal drama she kept overhearing.

 

In a place so isolated with such a small staff she seemed to never cease running into private moments of her coworkers. 

 

On her way to the kitchen Michael bumped into Owosekun, the girl blanched and dropped a stack of folded towels. Michael began helping the girl pick them up. 

 

“It is nothing,” Michael says kindly but the girl won’t look at her. She seems uncomfortable. “Is something the matter?” She asks. 

 

Owosekun shakes her head but still won’t look up.

 

The girl has always been shy and quiet but she’s never appeared rude to Michael. They weren’t friends but she had thought there was at least an understanding between them. 

 

Touching the girl’s wrist she says tentatively,

 

“If something is wrong you can tell me. We are sisters, you and I.”

 

Owosekun shakes her head again and removes herself from Michael’s grasp. Rising with the towels in her arms she steps back from her. 

 

“Well,” Michael says awkwardly. “Good day then.”

 

Departing, Michael cannot understand why the girl would suddenly do such an about face. Had she done something to offend her?

 

Entering the kitchen Detmer helped prepare lunch, the cook was busy in the pantry, and Detmer was the best person to ask if something was wrong with Owosekun.

 

“Detmer,” Michael says. “Is Owosekun feeling well? I just ran into her in the foyer and she seemed agitated.”

 

Detmer glances up from her chopping and shrugs. She won’t look at Michael either. Was she going mad? Did she insult the whole staff and not know it? 

 

“Detmer,” Michael says more firmly. “If something is troubling both of you I should like to know.”

 

She had no time or patients for such games! 

 

Detmer continued to chop but also spoke, 

 

“Taken a page from Landry’s book have you?”

 

Michael doesn’t understand, then Detmer finally raises her eyes to her and her chopping stops. 

 

“Best be careful, you know what it’s like to be a maid, don’t you Burnham?”

 

Michael felt a heavy weight in her chest that thundered like a train. 

 

“Or perhaps it’s been too long since you washed and scrubbed and toiled away,” Detmer goes on. “If I were you-“

 

“You are not me.” Michael says strongly. “I deplore gossip and I shall not hear this.” 

 

Turning to leave Michael is stopped by Detmer’s voice, 

 

“You didn’t mind when you asked about Landry. I wonder if you’ll mind when you’re used up and turned out and the next girl comes to take your place and she’ll ask about her predecessor. And I’ll tell her  _ all _ .”

 

Having had enough Michael leaves, and she goes in search of Owosekun. A rage she had never felt before in all her life rising to the surface like an instantaneous eruption of fire. 

 

Michael found the girl easily enough, dusting the dining room before lunch. They were alone.

 

“Why did you do that?” Michael demands, rounding on Owosekun who cringes away with the duster between her hands.

 

“I know you can speak so speak!” Michael shouts, her anger flowing through her. She grows irritated, impatient and tears the duster from the girl’s hands throwing it to the floor.

 

“ **_Speak_ ** !” Michael yells louder at the maid who trembles in fear. “Detmer is not here. No one will defend you. Tell me!”

 

The girl opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out except a sad excuse for a sentence. 

 

“Wh... wh...wha...”

“Stop acting like an invalid we both know better.” Michael says dryly.

 

“LEAVE ME BE!” The girl shouts so loudly Michael is taken aback. “Loo... look at ya. Dressin’ just like ‘em. Usin’ there wurds. Yur not ‘em!”

 

Michael was taken aback by the uncharacteristic way she was spoken to. Yes, at times individuals in a higher class had looked down upon her even some had admired her like she was a queer animal in a zoo but a servant had never shouted at her in such a way before. 

 

In that moment Michael realized her upbringing, though not of her choosing, had come back to haunt her. For with it, it gave her a semi sense of entitlement. She realized during Owosekun’s outburst that she had believed herself to be above a servant like the girl who stood before her.

 

She felt ashamed but too stubborn and defensive to admit it.

 

“You do not understand what you are saying.” Michael defended, though the double meaning was not lost on her.

 

Owosekun raised a finger to her chest,

 

“I know what it is I say,” Owosekun says, and Michael feels strangely guilty that the girl should find her voice, her liberation, due to her own prying and ignorance. “Ya think I don’t know whut ya think of me. Ya think yer betta cuz of ya fine dresses and yer books? Ya not betta. Yer just like ‘em. Don’t call me ya sista again, Burnham. Not till ya see ya self down here wit da rest of us.”

 

Owosekun crosses the room to her fallen duster, lifts it with dignity and resumes what she was doing before Burnham had come bursting in. 

 

Later, alone and humiliated, she shook with rage. Not towards Owosekun, Michael shook because she knew the other girl was right. She had been ignorant, she had been a silly obtuse child. She had never admitted it but she had silently believed she was better than the others.

 

Better than Stamets and Detmer and Owosekun and even Landry. But no, she was not. In fact Michael, feeling so low and dejected, felt she was far beneath all of them. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The last person she should have wanted to see after her encounter with Owosekun should have been his lordship. Instead, after eating a meal in her room for Michael couldn’t face the others, she needed to see him.

 

God, what would she tell him? That the other girls were mean to her? She felt beside herself with shame. But tonight he had promised her answers to his questions... and perhaps the promise of more between them. 

 

She couldn’t help but remember the night before. How it made her flush and quiver that a man like himself should want her in such a way. 

 

It almost made the humiliation of her argument with Owosekun ease her a little. 

 

The comfort a man... she had never sought that before. She had never needed or wanted it. She had only sought the approval of Lord Sarek but never his affection; she knew from an early age he would never see as anything more than a servant.

 

Not his daughter, only his ward.

 

Michael heard no music on her journey, for once it didn’t unsettle her. Knocking it took only moments before he pushed the door open and appeared before her. He hurried her inside, taking her hand and the candle from her mounting it on the mantelpiece.

 

“There’s so much I want to-“

“In a moment.” He says darkly before sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her passionately. 

 

Christ, being without her all day was like awaiting execution. 

 

Michael responded quite quickly having felt the same way. She had distracted herself all day as best she could but it was agony.

 

Placing her back on the ground he kisses her hands as if they were precious relics.

 

“Oh my darling,” he whispers against her temple. 

“Owosekun... she has seen us.”

 

He pulls back to look down at her. 

 

“So?” He asks and she scoffs. 

“So?  _ So?  _ Does it not bother you?” He shrugs. 

 

“Why should the talk of servants strike me down with nerves?” He questions. 

 

Michael disentangles herself from his warm arms. 

 

“It is not of yourself you should worry but my well being as well.” She tells her.

 

“And I do,” he says. “More than you will ever know.”

 

Michael felt this was truer than anything else. She could ask him of what his motives or intentions were later. For now, he was the only person she could ask of other things. 

 

“Who are Sylvia’s parents?” The question has been on the tip of her tongue since the beginning, and now that she had asked she feared his reaction more than ever; that every intimate moment he would take to heart stronger than if he had only remained her employer and not something more. 

 

He releases her hand and goes to sit at his piano bench, once more Michael realizes how startlingly silent the house suddenly feels without the constant music, how peaceful it appears. 

 

“My late wife was obsessed with having a child,” he begins. “So much so that after a couple of years of trying she became withdrawn, spiteful, hateful. I did my best to reassure her it was in God’s hands but that only seemed to make things worse. One night she woke me from my sleep and said it came to her in a dream that soon we would have the child we so desperately wanted. She seemed to be becoming her old self again. Then she became with child and though I was happy it did not feel right from the beginning.” 

 

He rises and goes to his desk, pulling open the middle drawer. He withdraws a small lock of fine red hair wrapped in a pink ribbon. 

 

“She suffered so many stillborns, Michael. Then a miracle,” he holds up the lock of hair. “I knew from the first moment Sylvia wasn’t mine. Red hair... not a single member of my family has ever had red hair. Katrina knew when I knew, but she pretended anyway. When I refused to hold the child the madness that had haunted her before returned. Her eyes were like ink blots, like all the humanity had drained from them.”

 

He looks down at the lock, the ribbon color had faded years ago, the ends frayed a little. 

 

“I found her ready to cut Sylvia’s throat. I could not understand it. A child was all Katrina ever wanted and she was ready to kill it without a second thought because I did not love it. And even worse when I realized Katrina’s lie, that Sylvia was not mine, I realized the woman I loved was no more. Someone else had taken her place, a mad woman hell bent on bloodshed.”

 

Lord Lorca places the lock back in his desk, his hand resting on the drawer for a moment. 

 

“She made several more threats and attempts on Sylvia's life before I finally locked her up. She promised to behave and I forbid she have any contact with the child, the only thing that seemed to calm her was when I played music for her... in this room, her prison. It worked, for a while. I will not lie to you, Michael. I was unfaithful to my wife more than once. And both times ended in death.”

 

Michael swallowed at the memory she had been forced to see. The girl’s half decapitated corpse in his arms, Lady Lorca’s mad face grinning ear to ear. 

 

“She grew obsessed with blood,” he says horrifically. “She would cut her own arms and play with it like it was nothing, as if it was not painful for her. Then she murdered the second maid, then a nobleman’s daughter then...” he stops, his eyes watering at the horror of the memories. “I had to put an end to her reign of terror but I helped dispose of bodies, Michael. I could not turn her in without implicating myself or others.”

 

“Culbar.” Michael says sadly and he nods. 

“He helped more than was necessary. He is a loyal friend.”

 

He comes around his desk. 

 

“One night she went madder than ever. The staff was terrified of her. Stamets warned me she was threatening Sylvia’s life again. I found her unattended, her nanny was nowhere to be found. She would not stop crying, I did not know what to do. You saw it.”

 

Michael nods, she comes to him and takes his hand. He squeezes so tightly it almost hurts. 

 

“Who stopped her?” Michael asks, he had already told her hadn’t killed Katrina but she had to know who. Before he could answer she poses another question, “was it Culbar?”

 

He shakes his head. 

 

“No, Michael. It was Stamets.”

 

The shock was more than enough to leave her stunned. 

 

“Yes, I could not believe it myself for a moment. He had found one of Culbar’s muskets and he shot her in the back of the head. I owe him my life. He bandaged my eyes, I could not see a foot in front of me. He told me he would fix  _ it _ . When I regained some of my sight I saw him dragging her body away, opening a window and dropping her out. He and Culbar carefully removed the bullet before hand. It would look like a horrible suicide.” 

 

Michael sighs, she didn’t realize she had been crying. 

 

“To see my wife like that... to see what had become of her. I had thought the worst was over. But the terror had only begun. Do you believe in the Devil, Michael?” He asks warily as if he fears she will think he’s mad. 

 

But she had seen the same phantoms he had. She nods.

 

“Katrina did too. Before her death she had been using black magic. Communing with the other side, the dark place beyond the vale. Her spirit was more frightening in death than it ever had been in life. My eyes healed but I still could not go outside without horrible pain, if I stopped playing the piano even for a few hours I would collapse in a fit. And...”

 

“Yes?”

 

He swallows, his somber expression aging him.

 

“And I would be forever haunted by the past. I was to be forever condemned to never leave this place and to be with her forever. And if I were to ever love another she would do away with them. I endeavored Culbar to find me someone who could break such a curse. Landry was proving useful and resourceful until... until things went wrong and Katrina took over her body. Once she had taken a vessel we were all under her power again.”

 

Michael licks her lips nervously. Mr. Saru didn’t believe Zeus had killed Landry... who could have savaged the woman in such a way? And who had been there to find her? The three men who covered up Lady Lorca’s own grizzly end who all had blood on their hands in different ways. 

 

“Did Zeus really kill Landry?”

 

He looks puzzled for a moment and then hurt. 

 

“Yes, Michael.” He answers strongly. She listens to the Sight. They have no answer. This must be something she needs to decide for herself. 

 

Could he have...?

 

“Do you believe me?” He asks fearfully, taking hold of her shoulders and interrupting her thoughts she doesn’t have time to think.

 

“Yes, yes I believe you.” She says quickly, nodding. What did Mr. Saru really know of animal attacks? He wasn’t a doctor and a doctor had confirmed it. 

 

“Katrina was planning on another attempt on Sylvia’s life, I was sure of it so I made sure Zeus patrolled the halls at night. And I was right to. But I knew if a dog attacked someone, anyone, he would have to be destroyed. It was a price I had to pay.” He says, sadly. 

 

“So,” Michael begins slowly, more than a little overwhelmed by all he had told her. “Why would she want to kill Sylvia?”

 

He sighs, takes her hand and they sit together. 

 

“I have asked myself that so many times,” he says. “All she ever wanted was a child. Sometimes I wonder if there’s more to Sylvia than meets the eye.”

 

Michael frowns. 

 

“What do you mean?” She asks him.

“I have pondered this with Culbar and Stamets many times, Michael, and after what happened to Landry it is not impossible. I wonder if perhaps Katrina wasn’t entirely mad. That perhaps whatever she had been communing with took over and needed a vessel to be reborn.”

 

Michael recalls things her mother had spoken of about dark magics. Horrible and gruesome cautionary things about sacrifices. Animals or children, the darkness needed innocents to be returned to flesh. 

 

“You think a darkness possessed your wife to become with child so it could kill Sylvia and take over her body to be reborn?” She asks almost in disbelief. It was too far fetched though! A spirit desiring to be reborn wouldn’t kill its intended vessel. 

 

Landry was proof if the vessel was destroyed then the spirit had to leave it.

 

But he shakes his head. 

 

“No Michael, I do not think it was the demon trying to kill Sylvia. I think it was Katrina’s spirit fighting back and trying to stop it.”

 

Good God, it was too horrible to think a mother trying to kill her own child, but the unthinkable was growing unquestionable. 

 

What a terrible reality that the one thing you always wanted turned into your greatest nightmare. 

 

“The poor woman,” Michael says sadly. “You must have truly loved her to have endured that.”

 

He nods and blinks back tears. 

 

“I did. It was only until it was too late that I realized the woman I loved was gone forever. Only brief moments during those terrible years did I see even the smallest glimpses of her again. Faintly, she was there. I think she was trying to fight back the darkness she had allowed into her.”

 

“Then who is Sylvia’s father?” She asks him and he pulls her to his chest, his lips brushing against her cheek and jawbone. 

 

“I do not like to think of it. It could have been anyone.” 

 

Michael feels his kisses change from light pressure to firmer pressure in the blink of an eye, she moans a little when she feels his open mouth tongue and at her neck. The insatiable and shameful ache between her legs returns. Rising he brings her to a door behind his desk, turning the knob she realizes they must be in his bedroom. 

 

It is too dark to see what decorates its walls, what looming portraits gaze down at them in judgment. All Michael knows is that he is undressing her again with ease and urgency and patience all at once. And she lets him; she lets him have her again, she forgets the world and Owosekun and Detmer and Culbar and Stamets.

 

She even forgets Tilly in the time she spends with his lordship...

 

_ Gabriel. _

 

He takes his time with her, he brings her to brink to pull her back again. He is passionate and gentle, he is courteous and begs her to tell him that what he does to her is right. She wonders if it is right... that it could not truly be a trace of purity in what they do together like this. No man capable of bringing such a chaste and innocent young woman as herself could ever been saintly. 

 

Michael, in the smallest most darkest corners of her mind, felt utterly relieved that he had corrupted her in such a way for she knew had she never met him she would have gone to her grave having never sampled such delicious fruit, that her body would have gone unnoticed and untouched. 

 

But now he taught her what her body was capable of, what it could feel. She stayed the night in his chambers, listening to the sounds of the house as it slept through the night with those inside it. Without the music she could hear the wind, she could hear the rain. What a beautiful place to live, she had decided now that the spirit seemed to be silenced.

 

For a brief moment, she wondered how long it would be silenced. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for racial slur.

Planning a dinner party was not something Michael had experience in. In fact, she was quite sure she was completely out of her depth, but his lordship insisted she work closely with the cook to plan the dinner. Michael felt a little overwhelmed but he assured her had total faith and confidence in her. Outside his chambers they were complete professionals, inside things were the complete opposite. The looks from Owosekun and Detmer continued to bother her a great deal. She felt sick to her stomach if she was being honest with herself. The only people who seemed to be either uninterested or kept it to themselves were Stamets and Culbar.

 

She was sure the girls had gossiped about it to at least Stamets but he had not brought it up to her, not even subtly. She appreciated that at least, but she still feared that every time she entered a room or left it they were talking about it.

 

Sylvia was none the wiser, of course. Being an innocent child she had not a clue or inkling something was going on behind his lordship’s bedroom door.

 

And what was more was that Michael was growing uneasy with the lack of appearance or sign of the spirit. An angry dark force such as it was should have done something by now. It had reigned in terror and blood for years, and now it was dormant? It unnerved Michael. It was breaking character, removing itself from its normal behavior.

 

To Michael it meant only one thing: it was planning something.

 

But with the dinner party now only hours away she had no time to wonder of the motives or plans of an angry spirit. The dinner table was set, Sylvia’s hair was being done by her nanny and Michael stared at her own reflection. The dress was delightful, beautiful. A gift from his lordship... and she almost didn’t wear it.

 

The guests would wonder how only a simple governess could have afforded such material. It was a sapphire blue with sheer silver trim. A little low cut for her taste since she was of the mind a governess should look professional at all times.

 

Michael enters the parlor with Sylvia in hand, his lordship is there in his black dinner wear, puffing on his pipe at the fireplace. The guests would be arriving at any time. When he sees them she notices the smile he tries to hide but his eyes look her up and down. Clearing his throat he looks to Sylvia who looks like a darling in her ivory white dinner gown.

 

“Good evening, my lord.” Sylvia says as she curtsies to him and he bows.

“Good evening, Miss. Tilly. You look absolutely lovely.” He says and the girl absolutely beams with gratitude. Glancing slightly at Michael he adds, “lovely indeed.”

 

Michael blushes but turns her face away, knowing full what he meant and who he was speaking to. The girls and Stamets were readying themselves for the first guests they had had in years.

 

What was more shocking about the evening was that his lordship had ordered the windows in the parlor, foyer and the drawing room all be opened for the evening’s affair. It had shocked everyone! Of course the order was also given that they be shuttered again come the end of the night.

 

But it was the fact he would allow it at all that meant the most. At one point Stamets had commented to Michael that his lordship wasn’t exactly behaving like his old self again but more like a new man. Stamets didn’t particularly care for change, even if it meant the lack of mischief and terror being made by the spirit.

 

Change meant breaking with routine and Stamets was if not anything a creature of habit and order. But he could not help but also confess he looked forward to the evening, that it had been many years since he had felt useful and not just a hostage.

 

“My lord, Lord Pike has arrived and a letter has also arrived for you.” Stamets announced and Sylvia gripped Michael’s hand, suddenly nervous about facing the guests. His lordship lights another match, rejuvenating his pipe.

 

“Show him in.” He orders cordially as he takes the letter from Stamets.

 

A few moments later a tall man, leaning on a black cane with a silver topper enters the room. His limp is not terrible but he uses it fluidly. It is not for show or decoration. He has graying dark hair at his temples, perhaps a few years old than his lordship himself. He is fit but with gentle eyes.

 

“Lorca, you old devil,” Lord Pike says, crossing the room to shake his lordship’s hand. “It’s been years. I had forgotten what this sad face looks like.”

 

His lordship actually laughed and Michael was pleased to see him interact with someone other than the staff, it was strange but he seemed truly happy.

 

“I thought you had become a hermit.” Pike says merrily.

“My eyes, you remember, as you with your cane old chap.”

 

Pike shrugs, gestures to the cane and shakes his head.

 

“Ah, but I do not let it confine me.” Pike says smartly then turns his attention to Sylvia and Michael.

 

“Ah, my niece Miss. Sylvia Tilly,” his lordship says, walking over to the ladies, Pike following quickly for a man of his condition. “And her governess, Miss. Michael Burnham.”

 

Pike is raising his hand to shake Michael’s when a look of recognition crosses his face.

 

“Miss. Burnham?” He questions, holding her hand in his. “ _The_ Michael Burnham?”

 

His lordship looks as puzzled as Michael feels. Did they know one another?

 

“Yes,” Michael answers in a confused voice. “I do not believe we have met though.”

 

Pike shakes his head and chuckles to himself.

 

“No, we have not. But we have a commonality.” He says with a smile. “Your former charge, Master Spock of Vulcan, his aunt recently suffered a bout of influenza and he was sent to stay with me until more suitable arrangements can be made.”

 

Michael gasps and he releases her hand.

 

“I had no idea,” Michael admits. “I have not received any letters or-”

“I am sure they did not wish to worry you. He is quite well, actually. In fact he should be expected to return to Vulcan within a few weeks.”

 

“Truly?” Michael questions, her first instinct is that something must have happened to the household of Vulcan if Lord Sarek was even considering bringing Master Spock home. Perhaps Sybok had left Vulcan once more? Michael, deeply to herself, hoped something quite terrible had befallen him.

 

Before Pike could answer Stamets entered again.

 

“Lord and Lady Belmont.” His lordship excused himself to make introductions and to be a gracious host as more guests arrived.

 

“It is as if the last ten years have never happened,” Pike comments and Michael nods.

 

“It was a terrible tragedy, as far as I know.” She says, then she glances at Sylvia. His lordship gestures from across the room for her to come to him. “Do not be nervous, you will be alright.”

 

Swallowing and standing straighter the girl moves gracefully across the room. Sylvia suddenly so much older in her lovely dress.

 

“Strange,” Pike continues. “I had only heard stories about her, never met her myself. A niece from a wayward sister in Ireland.”

 

Michael nods at his words, how little he thinks he knows. Michael hopes he never learns the truth for it would be too horrible for him to understand and he would think they were all mad.

 

“Yes, terrible.” Michael agrees, going along with whatever story or truth he thought he knew.

 

“Will you be joining us tonight, Miss. Burnham?” Lord Pike asks.

 

“I do believe I am.” She replies politely.

 

“Then, if you will excuse me, old friends need saving too sometimes.” He says with a polite bow and he wanders to his lordship and their friends, the Belmonts. Michael and Sylvia go into the dining room to go over the last minute arrangements. She hears more guests arrive but doesn’t hear the names being announced. It is almost seven, if all goes according to plan all of the guests will have arrived by now and the dinner can be served promptly at seven thirty.

 

“Why does his lordship sit at the head of the table?” Sylvia asks following Michael around the table as she checks the seating cards, strange three are missing perhaps there was a last minute change Stamets forgot to tell her of.

 

“I am not sure. Perhaps so he can see everyone without turning his head?” She jokes and Sylvia giggles.

 

“I wish I were sitting next to you.” She grumbles.

“But I will be right across the table from you,” Michael assures her.

“Who are you sitting next to?” Sylvia asks, Michael picks up the place card.

“Lord Pike, it would seem.” She answers primly.

 

Sylvia frowns.

 

“Do you not like him?” She asks, but Michael shakes her head.

“I do not know him, Miss. Tilly. I cannot make a judgment yet.”

 

Michael hears voices coming, Stamets must have announced dinner was ready. The guests begin entering and she moves aside to allow them to find their seats as Stamets directs them like a herd of wealthy cattle. Each one takes in Michael standing there next to Sylvia. They openly gawk at her, they point and whisper. But it is nothing new to Michael, if they hadn’t stared she would have thought there was something a little stronger in their cocktails than alcohol.

 

As the guests made their way to their seats at the beautifully laid dinner table Michael watched as his lordship opened the letter Stamets had handed him. It’s two pages, he reads it carefully, the second page just as carefully. Then... he reads them both again and again until he’s left standing alone by the door as all of his guests have seated themselves, including Michael and Sylvia.

 

“My lord?” Stamets asks, politely. Michael notices the three empty seats again a tingle of goose flesh pimple the back of her neck.

 

“Yes.” His lordship says, coming back to himself and looking as if he had seen a ghost. Michael wants to go to him and ask him what is wrong but she cannot. “Begin serving, I shall return in a moment, excuse me.” He hastily leaves and Michael swallows.

 

Bad news, the Sight quivers. He returns a few minutes later as his guests whisper and talk amongst themselves.

 

“Apologies,” he says, having regained his composure. “I would like to take this moment to thank each and every one of you for coming. I know it has been some time since any of you heard from me and I am sure some of you wondered if I was still alive.” The guests laugh at his joke, he raises a glass. “To old friends.” He says and they share in a toast.

 

He sits and begins engaging in conversation with an older woman on his left. Michael wonders why he does not look at her, even the slightest glance. And what was in his letter? And-

 

“My lord,” Stamets says, entering the room as he had been called away for a moment as the girls began serving. “Lord and Lady Sarek and Master Sybok have arrived.”

 

Michael drops her fork and it lands with a deafening clang. She wants to excuse herself, feign sickness, smash her head against something,  anything!

 

What were they doing here!

 

What will they think of her when they see her dressed this way? Sybok was here... her tormentor!

 

“Show them in please.” She hears his lordship says the room is silent due to her little outburst with her fork. She meets his eyes only for a moment and she swears she has never seen him so angry.

 

“I beg your pardon.” She says meekly. She reaches for her water but stops when she fears her hand is shaking too terribly to grip it properly.

 

The Sights scream at her to run! This was not her place, in this dress, at his table. Lord Pike, beside her, seems to notice her distress.

 

“Are you quite well, Miss. Burnham?” She hears him ask but it sounds like it’s coming from far away, as if he asking her through one end of a tunnel and she’s at the other end.

 

Michael can’t look up, she can’t move, she feels paralyzed with fear. She knows his lordship is looking at her, and then she feels like everyone in the room is staring at her with hollow black eyes.

 

Detmer serves Michael her morsel of fish and to Michael it squirms around her dish with maggots.

 

“Lord and Lady Sarek and Master Sybok.” Stamets announces. She forces herself to stand and greet them with the guests but her eyes are downcast.

 

“Lord and Lady Sarek, what an honor to finally meet you.” She hears Lord Lorca say, his voice dry.

 

“I am afraid I must impose on you Lord Lorca.” Lord Sarek’s voice cuts through the congenial air of the room. “Might I have a word in private?”

 

There is silence, the guests are not sure if they should remain standing or sit.

 

“Very well. Shall Lady Sarek and Master Sybok be seated?” Lorca asks, there is a pause.

 

Then Lady Amanda speaks,

 

“We would be honored.”

 

Michael finally looks up as his lordship and Lord Sarek depart. The guests finally sit when Lady Amanda and Sybok are seated. The tension is unbearable until,

 

“Well,” Lord Pike says. “Without a host what the devil are we supposed to do?”

 

The laughter seems to put everyone at ease. When Michael looks up Master Sybok smiles at her and she cringes.

 

“Lady Amanda, have you had the pleasure of meeting Miss. Tilly, Lord Lorca’s niece?” Pike asks taking over the role of host extremely well. Michael is thankful the man is not allowing the conversation to descend into awkwardness.

 

“No, it is a pleasure,” Lady Amanda replies with a tilt of her head. “I am however acquainted with Miss. Burnham as I sure my son Spock has mentioned her.”

 

Michael looks at her, she looks as lovely as the last time she had seen her.

 

“She was my son’s governess before her posting here.” Lady Amanda says to the other guests.

 

“Forgive me, but I am sure you are too young to have a grown son as Master Sybok.” Pike says with charm but Michael once more is covered in a blanket of tension, she wishes she could have warned him. She knows Pike means well but if he were connected to the Sareks in any he also knew that Amanda only had _one_ true son.

 

Before Lady Amanda can correct him or even bask in the charm Sybok’s inky voice speaks,

 

“She is not my mother,” he says with a snake like grin. “I am the only son of my father’s first marriage. As you know, Lord Pike.”

 

“I remember your mother fondly, Master Sybok,” Lady Belmont says. Sybok scoffs.

 

“Few do, many should.” His body language suggests he is speaking of his father. Before Pike can rescue the conversation Sybok continues, “Miss. Burnham is my father’s ward. Grew up under our roof, ate our food. And now she sits before us a _grand_ governess! Ha! Look how far we’ve let ourselves fall.”

 

“Sybok...” Amanda says warningly. He laughs and raises his glass.

 

“A toast to Miss. Burnham. The negress who climbed to the top of the latter!”

 

“Enough!” Pike exclaims, standing strongly even without his cane. As another act of defiance Sybok takes his drink slowly, unimpressed by the outrage of his elder. “A gentleman does not speak in such a way.” Pike says.

 

Sybok shrugs arrogantly, his eyes now fixed on Michael, she stares back. He is as imposing as he was when she was still a child.

 

“Look at it,” he says with contempt. “You all act as if it is perfectly normal.”

 

“Perhaps times are changing.” Lord Belmont says in a gruff tone.

 

“Truly?” Sybok questions in a mocking tone. “Then by all means pull up a chair to the simpering maid over there. Put her in a fancy gown and call her a lady. Do not tell me all of you will treat her the same. But no, teach it to read and write and dress it up like a doll. Then it’s amusing, _then_ they want and take.”

 

“I think you have said too much.” Pike warns and finally Sybok stands, sweat formed at his upper lip making his mustache look greasy.

 

“You are not the master here, old man.”

“Neither are you, _boy._ ”

 

Sybok is charging around the table before Lady Amanda can stop him. Thankfully Lord Belmont is also on his feet, surprisingly fast for an old man.

 

Michael moves in front of Lord Pike and she is shocked she has the strength to stop him.

 

Someone gasps, Detmer drops a serving tray and it clatters to the floor. At the same moment Michael feels horrible, intense pressure at her temples. The same pain follows as when she had touched the necklace.

 

She shouts in pain and collapses forward, smashing her hand on a wine glass. Before she can hit the ground something solid catches her, she begins convulsing wretchedly in Pike’s arms as he lowers her to the ground.

 

Stamets is at his side.

 

Michael wished she were unconscious for the whole ordeal, but sadly she was aware of everything. She could see the fishbowl images of Stamets and Lord Pike standing over her, trying to get her under control but the pain left her dumb.

 

And hovering behind them a dark cloud of smoke, billowing and cackling with red eyes. The spirit had returned, she feels something wet seeping into the material of her beautiful gown.

 

Tears spilt from eyes she could not shut. Stamets and Lord Pike speak words but she is too focused, too attached to the pain and horrible spirit to hear them.

 

The spirit wants her to feel the pain. She sees a vision of a horrible man beast, with sharp claws and fangs descending upon her, like the beast from her nightmare.

 

A low growl, her dress is shredded and the beast is horribly mutilating her, tearing her jugular, ripping chunks of flesh from her body until it is an unrecognizable lump of mushy flesh that once used to be Michael Burnham.

 

The weight of the knife in her hand, a man has his back to her.

 

_Run him through, it would be so easy..._

 

She does, again and again. She can’t stop. Not until the evil has been let out of him. The child should be next... they are a devil’s spawn. Kill it!

 

Gasping for air the pain is stopped suddenly and she’s grasping at anything. Someone holds her down and a rag falls from her forehead.

 

“It is only I!” A voice yells.

 

Coming back to herself she can smell Lady Amanda before she can see her.

 

“Water.” Amanda orders firmly to someone. “Drink.”

 

Michael leans up to sip from the cup then collapses down again.

 

“What happened?” She asks through a sob.

“You had a fit.” Amanda tells her replacing the cool rag at her forehead.

 

“Sybok?” Michael asks, grasping Amanda’s hand on her sweaty palm.

 

“He has been sent away.” Amanda assures her.

 

Michael can see Owosekun in the corner, she’s in her room.

 

“His lordship... the party-“ Michael tries sitting up again but Amanda keeps her still.

 

“Lord Lorca is with the guests now. No need to trouble yourself.” Amanda says and Michael feels a heavy weight in her chest, as if someone were stacking brick upon brick inside the small cavity where her heart lay.

 

“Why did you not write to me?” Amanda asks, her voice cracking some. “I could have helped.”

 

Michael shakes her head, she had written a letter...

 

“I did,” Michael says, exhausted and sweaty. “It has not been so long.”

 

Amanda makes a face, disappointed and confusion and almost anger.

 

“It _has_ been so long!” Amanda says, her ladylike voice rising with each word. She dismisses Owosekun to have better privacy. “It has been a year Michael.”

 

The weight in her chest drops to her stomach. Shaking her head she sits up finally.

 

“No... it’s been two months. Maybe three-“

“Do you hear yourself?” Amanda cuts in. “It has been a year. Do not tell me it is not so.”

 

Having only seen Lady Amanda in such a state once before was shocking enough but to see like this again worried Michael to her very soul.

 

_A whole year... it cannot be so!_

 

“I tried to write when you sent nothing,” Amanda explains in a hurt tone. “So many letters gone unanswered. I thought _I_ had at least meant something to you.”

 

The woman looks away to hide her tears.

 

“Then finally,” She says with a sigh. “Word from Gallowglass reaches us. Lord Lorca telling of your fit, that you collapsed outside at the pond.”

 

No, no! That happened days maybe weeks into her stay. When has it happened? Why had winter seemed to reach them so quickly?

 

“He asked if you had a history of such things. But nothing from you, Michael. Not a single note.”

 

Michael realizes during Amanda’s rant that she had always meant to write again after the first note went missing... that she always _meant_ to but something always got in the way.

 

“I wish to speak to his lordship.” Michael says but Amanda shakes her head.

 

“It is out of the question. Lord Sarek speaks to him now on your behalf.”

 

Michael tears the blankets from her nearly knocking Amanda off the bed and tries to dress herself.

 

“No, no, let me go!” Michael shouts as Amanda tries to stop her. The lady calls for help and in moments Owosekun and Detmer are pulling her back to her bed.

 

The three women manage to subdue her and moments later a man with a gray beard and tweed jacket enters the room carrying a black bag.

 

“How long has she been like this?” He asks calmly through Michael’s struggle.

 

“She just had another outburst.” Amanda explains. Michael watches as he removes a syringe from his pocket. She shakes harder.

 

“Relax.” Detmer says kindly but Michael cannot.

“Stop!” She shouts and a moment later she feels the needle enter her arm.

 

A peaceful elation and calm is felt moments later and she ceases to struggle. The drug begins to slip inside her system and she’s fading. The Sight is growing fainter until she can no longer hear them. For the first time in her life she does not hear them... it terrifies her despite her induced relaxed state.

 

“What does his lordship wish to do?” The doctor man asks Lady Amanda though their voices grow as quiet as the Sight inside her own soul. Lady Amanda’s speech slows,

 

“Heeee thinkssss... ittt.... bestttt... to....” Michael loses her hearing her and soon her eyelids drop shut. When she wakes again she feels someone touching her wrists, something heavy wrapping around them like leathery snakes. Her eyes focus, the drugs wearing off. Detmer and Owosekun are binding her to a bed...

 

Lunging herself forward she shoves them away, in shock they stumble. In her brief moment of freedom she wrenches the straps from her one bound arm. Throwing herself over the bed she realizes it was a moving table! They were trying to take her away. She shoves the door open... what room is she in? Where have they taken her!

 

The windows are still shuttered closed, the drugs are making her disoriented. Is it day or night? Was the party over hours ago or days?

 

_Keep running! Don’t let them take you!_

 

_One year... one year...._

 

None of it was possible. Had they all gone mad! Michael bursts through another set of doors, she hears the girls chasing after her, calling her name begging for her to return to them. Michael begins recognizing things, places. She’s on the third floor. She’s already left the servants quarters.

 

“Get her back here!” She hears a man’s voice say, was it the doctor? Why were they doing this to her!

 

Michael hears the music again... no, no, no it cannot be! He wouldn’t have begun playing again. She reaches his door, they’re not far behind her. Banging on the door she begs him to open it.

 

The music only grows louder, silencing her, blocking her out.

 

“Please,” she begs pitifully. She slides down the door, crying helplessly, her tears staining the wood. “Please...”

 

Michael feels someone over her, upon looking up it is none other than Lord Sarek. His face is stern but there is a sadness in his eyes. Weakly she reaches out her hand to him and to her great surprise he takes it, kneeling down in front of her.

 

“Why... why do you this to me?” She asks, her voice trembling. The doctor and the girls arrive, out of breath.

 

“My Lord, please-”

 

Lord Sarek holds up his hand which silences the man, keeping his attention entirely on Michael.

 

“It is like your mother, child.” He says finally. Michael frowns and shakes her head, her tears falling onto the carpet. Her mother? What did her mother of all people have to do with this! They were trying to make her seem mad, she wasn’t mad... she wasn’t mad!

 

“You do not remember,” Lord Sarek says and she groans loudly.

 

“They were murdered, while I was at chapel they-”

“No, Michael.” He cuts in kindly, he pulls her closer, his hands closing around her wrists. “Your mother killed your father.”

 

Michael pushes him away, her chest heaving and her stomach expelling whatever contents it had left in it onto the floor. She feels another hand on her back and looks up to see the wide eyes of Owosekun. Michael heaves another horrible sob from her chest.

 

Lord Sarek adjusts his hands on her wrists to keep her from fighting him.

 

“She went mad and killed him then turned her knife on you. Had I not been walking by, had I not heard the commotion... you would have died. I saved you from her blade.” He explains to her. “I had always feared that her madness would translate into you. At first your mother had fits, losing time, growing forgetful then...” his voice trails off and suddenly standing in the hallway before Michael is her mother herself, the blade chipped at the tip.

 

Michael can feel the weight in her hands. The woman has dead eyes, her mouth mumbling silent words, her father’s corpses at her feet, her work dress stained red with his blood.

 

“Mama,” Michael whispers sadly, Lord Sarek glances down the hall but sees nothing.

“No one is there, Michael.” He assures her but she tries to fight him again, but he steadies her.

 

“Please... let me speak to his lordship.” She begs him but he shakes his head.

“You are still under my care, Michael. You are my charge legally.” He explains sternly and she swallows another sob.

 

“What will you do to me?” She asks fearfully, but she already knows the answer.

“You will be taken to a sanitarium.” The words are a death sentence. “I will not lose you to the same darkness that took your mother.”

 

Michael finally meets his eyes and her face contorts into a hard look that nearly forces him to release her.

 

“If you send me to that place you will lose me.” She vows to him firmly. He gestures with his head to the doctor and Michael feels the needle enter her arm once more. Soon the numbing elation comes again and she falls into Lord Sarek’s arms.

 

The music surrounds her; she feels his lordship against her, _inside her,_ holding her, comforting her in their moments of despair when they found each other.

 

She’s drifting into an abyss that takes hold of her with chilling hands. She is nothing but a shell, they have taken everything from her.

 

And Lord Lorca lets them... she cannot see him, she cannot speak to him. He could help- no, there is no help, not for her. She has fallen too far. She cannot even pray, she cannot ask god to forgive her or save her.

 

And when Michael wakes... hell had finally found her.

END OF PART ONE


	15. Chapter Fifteen: PART TWO

PART TWO

 

_ Dearest Michael, _

 

_ I am not sure how this letter will find you, I hope in due time. I am unable to truly formulate my words, I cannot seem to think as clearly as before. Upon your first fit at Gallowglass I wrote in great haste and concern for your well being in mind, requesting that if Lord and Lady Sarek had any information to pass on to me of your medical history that I should like to be made aware of it. To my surprise their response came quite late. Before such a response was heard, it was in my best interest to invite them to the dinner party you had toiled so diligently over. I had not realized the history you shared with Master Sybok until it was too late. _

 

_ Lord Sarek informed me of your mother’s fate and that he feared such a fate might reach you as well. He told me that you had great delusions of grandeur as a child, that in your youth you were prone to talking amongst yourself to beings that did not exist. I did not take this to heart, as I believed at the time we shared an intimate knowledge of the world beyond this one and the terrors that encompasses it. Until I realized you never did tell me what a single phantom looked or sounded like, that you seemed more interested in being near me more than anyone. I am not accusing you of make believe for my benefit, it would not be the first time a young woman has attempted to ensnare a man by telling him what he wants to hear. _

 

_ I do not think you did this knowingly, that perhaps you too, as well as Landry, perhaps were giving into the darkness that is now a part of this house as well as myself. If you are prone to madness of the mind, as your mother was, you must understand I can no longer allow you to have contact with Miss. Tilly. She is too precious to me, though I know you will have trouble understanding this in your state. I hope you are well, that you make a quick recovery. I do not wish you ill will, never would I ever think such a thing. I hope not all of it was unreal, that perhaps, you did feel something for me as I did for you.  _

 

_ I do so wish with all my heart I had more power over your situation. Alas, I do not. I cannot speak on your behalf, Lord Sarek does that now. I am trapped, you see. Or perhaps you do not. I shall never truly know if your feelings were genuine. We never spoke of love, we never shared such words. But I do love you, Michael. More than I would have ever allowed myself to love anyone again.  _

 

_ With the greatest of love, Lord Gabriel Bedford Lorca. _

  
The letter does not reach Michael, instead it lies flat on the desk of Lord Sarek. He does not open it, he does nothing with it, except put it in his desk drawer. He contemplates if he made the right choice. What if there was nothing wrong with Michael? What if she were not possessed by evil? He was too stubborn to further contemplate if he were right or wrong...  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does true love conquer all?


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Lord Pike was not prone such fits of rage, he never leapt without looking in his life. He never gambled, rarely speculated and hardly drank. He was a man of very few vices. He never married but despite his self imposed bachelorhood the ladies he did court often spoke of his politeness, generosity, charm and courtesy. 

 

He was a man with an impeccable reputation. 

 

So it was quite bizarre that he found himself at the sanitarium at all. 

 

_ Morgan Black Park  _ was not a park at all but a intrepid white stone building with a black gate. It was five stories of madness. He had been forced to watch his own brother’s descent into madness. 

 

He had seen the vile ways in which doctors do their  _ good _ work on the old and the young, even, at times, on children. 

 

His brother had not lasted long; the doctors and orderlies had all been questioned thoroughly about the young man’s untimely death. For Edward had been the brother of a wealthy lord and his death brought forth the most insidious manner of men to Christopher's attention.

 

He stopped at the desk.

 

“I wish to speak to Miss. Michael Burnham.” He said decidedly. The nurse in question had small pinched eyes, as if someone had squeezed them shut at birth. 

 

“Yes, me lord,” she had said then went on about procedures and had to call for the doctor and that it might be a while. Christopher assured her he was happy to wait. 

 

The sterile foyer gave the appearance of cleanliness and order. But he knew beyond those double oak doors awaited horror. 

 

After sometime the doctor did arrive. A man with itchy fingers and a thick head of gray hair. 

 

“Lord Pike, this is unexpected.” Doctor Dica says. 

“I have come to see a patient.” He explains impatiently. 

 

“Well, yes, but you see Miss. Burnham is not in her right mind to receive visitors.” Dica explains nervously. 

 

“And why is that?” Christopher hastily questions.

“She is not  _ sound _ , sir.” Dica excuses and the lord grips his cane tighter. 

 

“I shall see for myself.” He announces and makes his way to the doors to be stopped by the doctor, the little man practically threw himself into the wood like it was a sacred element. 

 

“Please, sir, a man of your reputation should know it is not polite to barge in on a doctor’s work.” Dica says quickly. 

 

Christopher leans forward, not a single hair falling out of place. 

 

“You  _ will _ take me to her,” he says with authority, a tone he had cultivated over the years. “Need I remind you, Dica, of Bremstone Sanitarium? After what happened to my brother I had the place dismantled brick by brick. Shall I repeat it?”

 

Dica swallows thickly as the weight of the man’s power settles in. 

 

The doors open and Christopher must produce and raise his handkerchief to his nose.

 

It was beyond deplorable. Two men held down a woman by her arms and legs as she screamed and spat on them, one man was chewing on his own hand, another was making hideous and suggestive faces at two young girls who huddled together by a barred window staring out catatonically.

 

“This way, sir.” Dica says extending his hand. “We had to isolate her. She upset too many patients.”

 

Christopher frowns, he couldn’t imagine the girl outwardly offending anyone. 

 

“What did she do?” He asks, the smell deep in his nostrils now as well as his mouth. 

 

“Well, nothing really. Nothing that anyone exactly witnessed. She just... upsets them.” Dica explains.

 

Down two more corridors and another flight of stairs the hallway is less crowded but still loud with screaming and yelling. Dica comes to a heavy, bolted door built into the wall where there is no window.

 

It cleaves Christopher’s heart to think of her without sunlight.

 

“Here we are.” Dica says and Christopher notices the two gruff looking orderlies who had followed them. 

 

“Unlock it.” Christopher orders. Dica hesitates but needs no further pressure when he swallows again and unlocks the door. “I shall speak to her privately.” 

 

“My lord you cannot-”

“ _ Bremstone _ , Dica.” He says warningly and to prove who was really in charge he pats the cheek of the doctor before entering.

 

The door closes with a resounding thud and a light flickers on. The institution had been rigged recently with electric light, as his own home had been. An unsettling and queer invention. He recalled how at Lorca’s dinner party how the man seemed reluctant given his condition to install such a thing. 

 

The light is grey, muddled, but he sees her as his eyes adjust resting on her side away from him on a meager excuse for a bed. 

 

He slowly approaches her. 

 

“Miss. Burnham,” He says, a little more nervously than he means to. “It is Lord Pike. I have come to speak to you.”

 

He suddenly feels terribly foolish coming here unannounced. It was not like him. And how must she feel? Feeling he has no choice and that he simply cannot leave now that he is here he opens his mouth, 

 

“Miss. Burnham?” He says again when she does not answer. Suddenly she sits up, gasping as if she had been awoken from a nightmare. His instinct is to go to her, to comfort her. But he doesn’t know if that is what she wishes. 

 

She scratches at her eyes, turns slightly, he can see the purple bruises under both eyes. She realizes who he is and she snaps her face away. 

 

He clears his throat and turns his back as she adjust her raggy hospital gown. 

 

“Lord Pike,” she finally speaks but her voice sounds dry. “They did not tell me you were coming.”

 

He still averts his eyes, giving her some semblance of dignity. 

 

“No I... it was not planned, you see.” He says, he hears her rise but she comes no closer and finally he can no longer resist and he looks at her. 

 

Lord Almighty she looked like a miserable wretch! He clenches his first around his cane. 

 

_ Damn you, Sarek!  _

 

“Are you not going to ask if I have been treated well, my lord?” She asks though he senses the sarcasm indeed. He slowly shakes his head no. Her knees are bruised, her arms. 

 

Her hands and feet were dirty, her fingernails worn down. 

 

“What have they done to you?” He says before he thinks. She sighs and simply shrugs.

 

“It is not the worst of what others get. I am fortunate.” 

 

“Fortunate!” He bellows, his anger overwhelming him. “This is sickening.”

 

“I am here to be well.” She says and he shakes his head. 

 

“No. I do not believe it.”

“Then what did you come here to believe?” She asks brokenly. 

 

“I came to see if it was true,” he answers, his voice lower and he takes another step towards her. Her stance is uneven, weakening. “That the woman I met two months ago was locked away here. That the intelligent, bright and... gentle human being I met had truly gone mad.”

 

She scoffs, shaking her head. 

 

“You do not know me.” She reminds him. 

“Be that as it may I will not leave you here.”

 

Upon his words he knocks on the hard door, she rushes to him as if panicked. 

 

“You cannot!” She tells him forcefully. He grunts. 

“And why not?” He knocks again.

 

“Please it is for the best I remain here.” She implores, he shakes his head. 

 

“I will not leave you here.” He says again and this time he bashes at the door with his black cane, beautiful with its shiny silver topper. 

 

“Please. Lord Sarek will-“

“Lord Sarek be damned!” He shouts and Michael looks panicked. Her chest rises and falls heavily, she backs away from the door as if a demon awaits her behind it. 

 

As the door opens he glances back at her as she loses her footing and begins to fall. Foregoing his own safety and comfort he drops his cane to catch her as she faints in his arms; she’s even lighter than she had been when she collapsed at dinner. 

 

Not wasting a single moment or breath he lifts her and begins carrying her out of her cell and into the light. 

 

He glances down at her briefly, she’s unconscious. Dica half gasps half screams at the sight before him and begins yammering on about regulations and protocols and “this isn’t right” and “you can’t do this”! 

 

“Lord Sarek is the girl’s legal guardian, sir, you cannot simply walk in here and-”

 

Christopher ignores the pain in his knee and keeps walking, his cane forgotten back in Michael’s cell. 

 

Patients and nurses and orderlies are horrified by what they are seeing as well as shocked. He doesn’t care. Let them look, let them talk, let all of England know that he would not stand for this. Let Lord Sarek in his mansion with his grotesque son and with his cowed wife hear of this! This was not how a person should be treated. 

 

He pushes the pain in his knee away once more and knows he’s about to regret later what he’s going to do now. He lifts his long leg and kicks the front door open. Thankfully the brace he wears beneath his trousers absorbs most of the shock but his gut feels that familiar punch. 

 

“Lord Pike, please, I implore you-”

“Enough!” He shouts, rounding on the pathetic man. He adjusts Michael against him, attempting to cover her as best he can. “Tell Lord Sarek if he has a grievance he knows where to find me.”

 

Christopher gently puts Michael inside his carriage, his loyal driver looks a little puzzled but asks no questions. “Harrow House, Dixon.” He orders and Dixon nods his head sharply.

 

Inside the carriage he doesn’t watch the hospital disappear from his view, he doesn’t savor the faces he’s sure Dica and his staff are making. Instead he removes his leather gloves and turns his attention to Michael. He removes his cloak and wraps it around her and leans her against him.

 

Bryce, his trusted housekeeper, was expecting him however she was momentarily shocked when he arrived with a girl clearly in need of medical attention. He carries her inside and up the stairs to one of the many guest bedrooms. 

 

“Who is she, Christopher?” She asks when they are finally alone, they have been on first name bases for years in private. He finally relaxes as Bryce wipes the girl’s brow, her hands and cleans the gunk from under her fingernails. When she wakes she will need a bath. 

 

“Miss. Michael Burnham.” He tells her, the older woman’s brow rises.

“This is the girl you spoke of at Lorca’s dinner party two months ago?” She asks in disbelief. 

“The very same.” 

 

Bryce grits her teeth. 

 

“The poor child. Damn Lorca for sending her to such a place.” She says strongly, having once worked as a nurse in a mad house she detested the practices that went on in such places, the abuse and the terrible  _ treatments  _ inflicted on not only the mad but the perfectly sane as well.

 

“It was not Lord Lorca who sent her away,” he confirms. “It was Lord Sarek.”

“Her own guardian?” Bryce questions and he nods.

“Apparently after her parents death he did more than take legal guardianship of her. He also bought her.”

 

Bryce gasps. 

 

“That’s not legal!” She says, the growing amount of anger she’s feeling at the poor girl’s suffering mounting in extreme ways. 

 

“Apparently Lord Sarek does not care for legality.” 

“Who did he buy her from?” 

“Her parents were apparently in debt to some bad people. I suppose he thought he was doing the right thing at the time. And besides, despite being of legal age, she has very few rights.” 

 

Bryce finishes cleaning the girls dainty hands, they are small but very ladylike. Clearing the dirt from her face the girl has a lovely complexion. Her lips are dry and cracked with blotches of old blood. 

 

“She needs a bath, poor thing.” Bryce says, rising and going to Christopher who looks on worriedly, the woman lays a hand on his arm. “She will not disappear, Christopher. I promise to watch over her.” 

 

He nods but seems reluctant to leave. When he does he writes to his caretaker in Fiddlehead Farms that he plans to open the country house. Michael should recoup there, he decides. The fresh spring air should be a welcome to her, she will be looked after, she will be cared for. He will wait for the wrath of Lord Sarek to come thundering down on him. But he was not afraid. He goes to his small study and begins to write another letter, but not to Lord Sarek.

 

_ My Dear Lord Lorca, _

 

_ I should have you know that this afternoon I had the pleasure of relieving Miss. Michael Burnham from the burden of incarceration. I realize it was not by your hand she was in the hell I found her in, but I also know, as you should be made aware, of the personal and delicate feelings you have towards her. I have it from reliable sources that you have a personal vested interest in Miss. Burnham, as do I. She will be recuperating at my country home, I do not think it wise yet for you to attempt to come or to contact her as she is hardly nourished to stand upright.  _

 

_ I send this to you as a gentleman assuring you that I have no ulterior motives towards Miss. Burnham except to ensure she returns to good health. I should hope you come to my defense should Lord Sarek wish to take any action against me.  _

 

_ Sincerely, Your Friend, Lord Christopher Frances Pike.  _

 

He dates it, seals it and sends it off with Dixon with the instruction to post it as soon as possible. There was no time to waste. 

 

Christopher removes the note Lorca’s gamekeeper has slipped him as he left Gallowglass from his best pocket. His reliable source... Culbar had always given the impression he was a trustworthy man, loyal and silent to matters that needed the utmost care.

 

_ Sir, the events of tonight are not what they seem. I fear for Miss. Burnham and lordship. There are dark forces at work here. I trust you understand what I mean, I beg of you to help. The relationship of lord and governess ended some time ago. I trust I do not have to give sorted details. But they are both being played like puppets. Please, you must help us.  _

 

Culbar penned the note quickly, his penmanship skewed, sweat stained were some of the words. It had taken much time and Christopher’s own subtle investigation into the matter to come to the hasty decision to rescue Miss. Burnham.

 

He had been in contact with a man more experienced in such manners of “dark forces”. One that came with a reputation not to be questioned. Yes, he would employ this man’s knowledge and expertise. He would do all he could to aid not only Miss. Burnham but his old friend as well.

 

Bryce instructed the maids and footmen and the rest of the staff they were closing Harrow House for the time being and moving to the country estate sooner than was planned. They were also given strict instructions not to bother their guest. 

 

Meanwhile, upstairs, said guest was resting in a comfortable bath where the water was warm and there was real soap to clean herself with. It was not an ice bath or even worse, she wasn’t forced to stand there be sprayed by frigid water with other sickly women. She didn’t fear for her life and for a brief moment, Michael let herself sink to the bottom of the porcelain tub.

 

Holding her breath she opens her eyes. Months of terror over... but it could happen again. Lord Sarek could take her from Lord Pike and throw her back into that terrible place. It had been almost as terrible as the end of her stay at Gallowglass. The horrible realizations that had come about in her final hours. 

 

Her brief meeting with Lord Pike had proved a connection useful to cultivate. She had not realized he had been so taken with her, whether it be personal or professional. In Michael’s experience she feared it would be the first. Men were often motivated by personal feelings when it came to an object of their affection. They would take great personal risks to themselves to play the hero of the story.

 

Did Lord Pike have similar motivations? The Sight had been silent since she had been dragged away kicking and screaming to her place of torment. And worst of Lord Lorca had done nothing. He had not believed her, he had most likely thought she was using him. A double sided betrayal. 

 

If only she had truly betrayed him. But she hadn’t. She had never lied, but she could not actually prove what she could do or what she could see. Doubt had crept into his mind, and doubt was a poison with little to no remedy. 

 

The door to the bathroom opens as she ascends the water for air and she covers herself. 

 

It is that woman, with graying red hair and warm blue eyes. 

 

“It is only I,” the woman says holding a couple of towels folded in her arms. “My name is Helen Bryce. You need not fear your honor from me.”

 

There is a kind and gentle humor in her voice as she goes to the tub to hold out the towel for her.

 

“Come, the water has gone tepid.” She says gently. Michael hesitates but rises and allows Bryce to wrap the towel around her. “No need to be shy. We are women, we have the same parts. I have seen my fair share of naked bodies. I delivered at least a hundred babes, all looking and sounding exactly the same.”

 

Michael smiles shyly as the woman dries Michael’s arms and legs with a smaller towel that rested on the vanity. When it came time for Michael to turn she resisted, her back still a mess of scars only one other had ever seen. 

 

“Please, allow me.” Bryce says gently. Begrudgingly, Michael turns, and the woman doesn’t look and stare, she doesn’t gawk. She simply begins her job of drying her off entirely. It almost forces tears to Michael’s eyes that Bryce doesn’t ask to touch them or that she gasps and tells her how sorry she is that she had to endure such punishment. 

 

Turning Michael back to face her, Bryce cups her cheeks.

 

“There, all done. Come, I have prepared a dress and some luncheon for you.” Taking Michael by the hand Bryce leads her back into her bedroom; she helps the girl dress and for the first time in her life Michael is being dressed by someone else, like she is a lady. Bryce sits her down at a small table and places her meal in a lovely order before her. 

 

“I doubt I need to feed you,” Bryce says with a smile and Michael nods. “I shall leave you to it. Please eat, you need your strength. I have prepared some vitamins that will help you regain more of your energy.”

 

With that Bryce opens the curtains and takes her leave and after being in a shuttered house for who knows how long now and a confined to that horrible cold room, Michael can finally feel the sun on her face. 

 

Michael looks down at the beautiful meal before her. She wants to ravage it but takes her time, slowly eating. Knowing that if she eats too quickly it could be a recipe for disaster for her stomach. The food is colorful and delicious. She had not known the taste of fruit or meat in two months. 

 

Upon finishing her meal, as if perfectly timed, a knock comes to the door. She rises and smoothes out the front of her dress, a little ill fitted but comfortable nonetheless compared to the rags she had been subjected to wear. 

 

“Come.” She says with a shaky voice. 

 

Lord Pike enters and she has to hold the table. He took her from that place... why had he? He didn’t know her, he had no personal history with her. What were his motivations? The drugs from the hospital that were still in her system muffled the Sight, she could hear nothing and would continue to hear silence until the drugs had finally left her. 

 

“I am glad to see you up,” he says entering the room fully, but he does not close the door. “I wanted to assure you that you can trust me and Bryce. We mean you no harm.” 

 

Michael has to sit, she has stood too long and she doesn’t want to use up any of the little strength she was beginning to build up. He goes to her, pulling out her chair and helping her to sit. 

 

“Your kindness is appreciated more than you will ever know.” She says to him and he asks to sit, in his own home! He asks her for permission. She allows him. 

 

“I know it will sound foolish,” he begins. “But when I made your acquaintance two months ago I felt a connection to you. Not just because of my connection to Master Spock but he had spoken very highly of you.” 

 

Michael smiles at the memory of the sweet tempered albeit curious boy. 

 

“I am surprised he remembers me at all.” She admits sadly. 

“On the contrary. As I stated when I met you he has great fond memories of you. And even for a child a great admiration.”  

 

Michael wished more than anything that Master Spock was here. She longed to see how tall he had grown, what he had learned. In truth when the separation happened she had told herself numerous times that this was for the best, for his safety.

 

That she should not grieve as Lady Amanda had for Spock was not her brother or her friend. She had been his governess and his father’s ward and nothing more. 

 

But to hear he had thought so highly and deeply of her at such a tender age gave a strange sense of security and purpose, that she had indeed made an impression on him he was not soon to forget. 

 

“I should tell you, Miss. Burnham, for I feel I have no right to keep it from you, that I have sent at great haste the news of your current situation to Lord Lorca.” Lord Pike tells her and she attempts to hide her feelings from him on the subject. 

 

Her heart clenches at the thought of him, still trapped in that wretched place and even more so the souls of those around him equally as trapped... poor Tilly. She must think Michael had abandoned her! 

 

“May I ask why you felt the need to tell him?” She asks.

 

“I might not know you very well but in the short time I knew you at Gallowglass it did not escape my observations that you and his lordship had grown... close. During your episode you kept asking for him until you were taken away.” He says knowingly and she nods, confirming his theory. He lets out a breath. “So I was right in my assumption?”

 

“Indeed, my lord. What do you plan to do with me?” She asks, there’s a creak in the house and she shudders, Lord Sarek will at any moment to burst through the door and drag her back to that horrible place. 

 

“I am moving my staff to my summer estate in the country where you will recuperate and then,” he pauses and stands. “You shall decide for yourself what your path must be.”

 

Michael attempts to stand herself but he stops her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Please, try to conserve your energy. We leave for my estate in the morning.” 

 

As he turns to leave Michael speaks again, 

 

“My lord,” he stops. “Thank you for your abundant kindness. I swear that I will try to find a way to repay you.” 

 

Michael sees just the faintest glimmers of a smile, almost bashful as his eyes wrinkle when he does so. 

 

“There is no debt, Miss. Burnham.”

 

Before she can question his motives further he departs, leaving her in the comfort and privacy of her own room. She is for the first time in two months in perfect safety and comfort.

 

She worries the lack of drugs in her system will take longer to wear off than she hopes. She feels the effects of not having the mind numbing concoctions slowly but she fears it will take greater hold of her come bed.

 

In motherly fashion Bryce checks on her, keeping watch. Refilling her water glass, giving her the vitamins she promised, even supplying books to distract Michael’s mind.

 

Come nightfall Bryce brings her supper and they eat together, 

 

“How long have you known Lord Pike?” Michael ask over her chicken broth. 

 

“Many years,” Bryce answers. “We had a most lively introduction.”

 

“How so?”

 

Bryce wipes the corners of her mouth with the perfectly white napkin cloth. 

 

“I was a midwife in London living with a few other women like myself in an all girls boarding house. Men were strictly forbidden. I was walking home when a young girl passing by collapsed. She was giving birth right there on the dirty streets. In my haste to get her somewhere safe I thought his lordship’s carriage was an empty city carriage,” Bryce chuckles at the memory. 

 

“I hurled myself in front of it. At first he was quite angry then he saw my predicament. I explained the situation and begged him to take me to the boarding house because the hospital was too far. My landlady was quite disturbed by his presence. With my help and the other girls we delivered a healthy baby girl. His lordship was so moved he gave the girl a job in his household, but she gave the baby up to a childless couple at a local parish. 

 

His lordship still checks in on the child from time to time. He never asked anything in return.”

 

Michael smiles at the story, he has always had a flare for being chivalrous and generous. 

 

Perhaps his motivation for helping Michael was that he simply couldn’t help himself. Perhaps he was one of the few men left who truly cared.

 

“You have nothing to fear of him, Miss. Burnham, I assure you.”

 

Michael sighs.

 

“I do not wish to be an imposition. I do not deserve such charity.” She says solemnly. 

 

Bryce sets aside her meal, 

 

“And why are you so terrible you should have been left there?”

 

“I am... a fallen woman. I do not deserve such kindness.”

 

For a moment Bryce says nothing and Michael fears she will tell Lord Pike and he will throw her out! Yes, he guessed correctly on her relationship with Lord Lorca but perhaps he didn’t think it had been sexual, yet. 

 

Then to her surprise Bryce laughs. 

 

“A  _ fallen _ woman?” She says after a time, still chuckling around the words. “My dear girl, you are not the first or the last woman to feel desire. If God wished us to never feel such things he would not have made us capable to feel it.”

 

Michael feels her cheeks burn and she shakes her head.

 

“But it is not right when you are unmarried.”

 

Again Bryce sighs with laughter. 

 

“There is much you do not know. Did you consider men were put on this earth for  _ our _ pleasure?”

 

The thought is ludicrous! Women were the childbearing ones, the homemakers and the conduit for a man’s desire. As if sensing her thoughts Bryce lays a comforting hand on her own.

 

“There is much pleasure a man can be to a woman. Of this I am sure you have learned. And something tells it is your upbringing that speaks to me now and not Michael Burnham herself.”

 

For a moment Michael laughs herself. Perhaps there was something to what Bryce said. Perhaps she was not entirely wrong.

 

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” she encourages. “I think in time you will see that the Lord Almighty loves you no matter who you have  _ loved _ .”

 

It is comforting but Michael is still brought too low to truly believe it. 

 

“What other reasons should you have been kept there?” Bryce asks, attempting to absolve Michael of whatever wrongdoing the girl thinks she did to deserve such heinous punishments.

 

“They tell me I am mad.” Michael admits, Bryce scowls.

“And are you?” 

 

“Would I know? Would a mad person not constantly defend their sanity?” Michael retorts smartly. 

 

As Michael prepared for bed that night she feared she would be awoken the following morning by the dour face of Lord Sarek or be haunted by the spirits of the angry dead. In the sanitarium she had not seen them for her power to see beyond the vale had been drowned by the cocktail of drugs the doctors had kept her on. Now she was both glad to be rid of them but also fearful that without them the devils of the dark would find her once more to terrorize her. 

 

_ Poor Stamets, poor Culbar, poor Sylvia and Detmer and Owosekun and Mr. Saru and Mrs. Myers and the cook and... his poor lordship.  _

 

Michael wept quietly, clutching the blanket to her chest. She missed all of them. Even his lordship who had not so much as lifted a finger to help her out of her situation. In fact, if she had never taken the unusual post she never would have worried about such situations. She never would have had to worry about her chastity or her honor or even her sanity. 

 

Or even the lives of others.

 

Now the lives of so many people seemed to rest in her hands. How were they fairing without her? Was his lordship, Stamets and Culbar still doing everything in their power to keep Sylvia from harm? How long until the darkness possessing the spirit of the late Lady Lorca took another form and finally finished what it had been all those years ago? 

 

It was not Michael’s concern anymore though. She had been a single governess in what would most likely be a long line of them, she had meant nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not feel the need to go into too much gory detail about Michael's stay at an asylum. If you know anything about them at the turn of the century they were truly terrible places to be sent to. The majority of women were sent for a condition called "hysteria". There are some scenes I wrote of Michael's stay where I included Ash but honestly, I really wanted her to be cared for rather than keep dragging her through terrors. Maybe I'll post the deleted chapters later on. I think what this chapter eludes to is enough though. I hope you're all still enjoying the story! It's far from over :) <3


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Power begins to wake.

Sir Horace Croft did not travel to rural communities or the estates of the elite and the wealthy willy nilly. His companion, Philippa, advised him it would be a fruitful venture, having looked into the cards for guidance. Together, their minds were as one. He wished he could say he had been her gallant rescuer, but it had been indeed she who had saved him from all that was threatening to bring him to his knees. 

 

All his life Horace had struggled with the voices in his head, hiding it as best he could. He could not deny they spoke more truths than lies. They told him of things that were to come on the homefront as well as across the sea. How they knew such things of the future he did not know. 

 

Until he met Philippa. 

 

On a trip to the orient, a foreign land he had never seen before, he met her. It was a market square in the middle of a hot asian summer when he happened upon her on a street corner. He offered her money but he had not wished to buy her for the night, he simply took pity on her and wanted her to have somewhere warm to rest. 

 

And in a queer twist of fate, Philippa took pity on him. He was so uninterested in anything that could bring pleasure to his own life she watched as he handed his money away and went wandering off in search of either answers to his ailment or his own doom. Being an outcast herself because of her abilities she followed him and opened his third eye.

 

He brought her home with him and together they became more than two souls sharing the earth together. They became a unit of one. 

 

Philippa’s power allowed her to reach into the other side, but Horace could literally walk among it. They acted as a conduit for both; she would call upon the spirit, if it were hateful and dangerous he would exorcise it. If it refused to speak he went into the vale to find it. It was not easy teaching one’s own soul to move between worlds but accomplish it he did. 

 

They also shared a common power to manipulate the elements. 

 

And now he was summoned to this beautiful estate with it’s hills and barns to speak to a girl who was either mad or truly gifted with second sight. 

 

_ She comes, she can hear me,  _ Philippa concurs with him as Horace speaks to Lord Pike.

 

“So her mother’s history speaks for itself.” Horace concludes not wanting to give away Philippa’s findings too soon. 

 

“I am afraid so, but I cannot believe she’s a lunatic.” Lord Pike says gravely. Horace nods and scratches his thick beard.

 

“How old was she when she witnessed her father’s murder?” He asks, his notepad already full of scribbles only he could read. He had learned to write in code a long time ago when his valet had come upon his diary of his mad ramblings. 

 

“I would say no older than eight.” Lord Pike responds, resting his leg and sitting in his desk chair.

 

“Poor child.” Philippa says.

“Indeed. Madness can be hereditary though. But we shall see.” Horace says and not a moment later the lunatic in question was seen through into the study. Horace and Philippa rise to greet her. 

 

“Miss. Burnham,” Lord Pike says, standing once more with a grimace, resting more heavily on his cane. “May I present Sir Horace Croft and his companion Philippa Georgiou.” 

 

Michael tilts her head in their presence and Horace ushers her in. 

 

“That will be all, Taft.” Pike says kindly, the maid nods and closes the door behind her. Philippa reaches for Michael’s hand. 

 

_ Do you still hear my voice?  _ The elegant lady asks looking into Michael’s dark eyes. The girl’s lips part and she nods shakily. 

 

“She is not mad.” Philippa says decidedly. Horace goes to her, Philippa takes a neutral step back, he raises a hand and she flinches away. 

 

“I apologize, will you permit me?” Horace asks professionally. 

 

Michael glances at Pike but his doesn’t look concerned, he nods encouraging her. Swallowing she confirms that this Sir Croft may touch her. 

 

Pressing his fingertips into her temple, his thumb at her cheekbone he closes his eyes. Intense pressure forms behind her eyelids and she’s forced to shut them.

 

“Pain,” Horace whispers. “Terrible, terrible pain. A dark entity... it tried to get in. It tried to force its way in and out.” 

 

Philippa touches his shoulder. 

 

“My god,” Horace gasps and Michael sees what he sees... the black smoke with red eyes, the cackling and horrid grin of Lady Lorca, her dress covered in blood, her desire to kill Sylvia- his lordship running with the child in his arms. All things Michael has seen before. Second hand, now third, memories of another life. Horace tries to open another door into her mind... the locked room where she keeps the memory of the beast. He feels the power she uses to keep him away and he does not try to force it open.

 

Slowly, Horace releases Michael and cups her cheeks gently, as a father would. Tears slide down over his thumbs. 

 

“You are not mad, dear girl. I swear what you have seen should have driven you to the brink but your mind is strong, Michael Burnham.” Michael wants to fall into the man’s arms and kiss the woman’s fingertips. It was the first time in her life she had felt akin to something beyond her own power and fear of that same power. 

 

The first time she had met others like her who had not wanted to harm her. 

 

The first time in her life where others confirmed what she saw, believed her. She had hoped Lord Lorca would have been that person, but his mind had been tainted against her. But she still ached to save him and Sylvia and the others. 

 

“What will we do now?” Pike asks them. Michael wonders how the man has such blind faith in these people? Perhaps they have already offered their proof to him? She wonders in what way.

 

“Now,” Philippa says, placing a cigarette between her lips and lighting it with ease. “We begin.”

 

Michael’s first lesson began that very same day.

 

“The first point is of course respecting the laws of nature,” Horace explains outside in the garden, rolling up his sleeves and wearing only his brown vest. Philippa sits sipping tea merrily with Bryce and Lord Pike. 

 

“Must they watch?” Michael asks him nervously. Horace glances over at their onlookers.

“For their own personal curiosity, yes.” He says gently. “And for yours.”

 

“Mine?” She asks him. He nods.

“They will not be able to disprove you now that they too have witnessed what you can do.” 

 

Michael sighs deeply, shaking her head. 

 

“I cannot  _ do anything.”  _

 

Horace lays his on her shoulders.

 

“You only think you can do nothing. I shall show you what things you are capable of. First: the laws of nature.” He holds up a single finger before her. 

 

“All creatures must adhere to the natural order of things,” he begins, turning he begins setting up a few clay pots filled with dirt. “But there are certain loopholes.”

 

“Loopholes?” She raises a brow. 

“People like you and I, like Philippa.”

 

Michael glances at the woman as he assembles his pots, the onlookers are far enough for her to feel comfortable asking him some questions, 

 

“Is she your wife?” She asks and he chuckles.

“Good heavens no!” He exclaims, dusting the soil off his hands. “She’s far more than that.”

 

“More?” She asks curiously. 

“She is... everything. Everything I am not and I am everything she is not. Together we are as one.”

 

Michael smiles out of the corner of her mouth. She remembers a brief time when she too had felt something similar. But that poor tormented man was far away now.

 

“Come,” he gestures with his hand. “Focus on the soil in the pots. Reach out to its energy, the life it could make, the life it could hold.” 

 

Michael extends her hand and flexes her mind, drawing upon the Sight to guide her. She feels the tremor in her fingertips, the soil is just out of reach. The pressure grows too great and she drops her hand with a shudder.

 

“Give it time,” Horace says in a reassuring tone. 

“I feel ridiculous!” She says angrily. 

“And you will continue to feel so until you accomplish the task in due time.”

 

Michael had never backed down from a challenge before. She had mastered languages when she was told she did not have the brain capacity to do so, she learned to read and write and translate the written word. 

 

She had memorized maps and the words of philosophers and scholars. She had survived bloody ordeals that would have broken others. 

 

Michael swallows her pride and extends her hand again, 

 

_ Move you damn pot!  _

 

Flexing stronger than before she digs deep into the Sight and it hums to life; her hand trembles but she keeps it steady. 

 

_ Do not let the Sight guide you,  _ she hears Philippa’s voice say. You _ control the Sight. _

 

She can taste the soil, it’s earthy taste and life giving aroma; like the smell after a rainfall. 

 

The top pot shifts an inch and she gasps for air. Horace steadies her on her feet and smiles broadly. 

 

“Yes!” He says proudly. “I knew you could do it.”

 

It was the first time in Michael’s life a teacher, tutor or instructor had ever praised her ability before and the pot had hardly moved. She was overwhelmed by it. 

 

“Everything in this plain of existence has energy,” he explains. “Even dark spirits who move between worlds. They transfer it through others sometimes when they cannot take their own form. But the energy remains.” 

 

Michael nods studiously. That’s how the dark spirit at Gallowglass exists, she knew she had been right! 

 

They practice a few more hours until her limbs are too tired. The following day Philippa takes her to the stables. The lady reaches out a hand to run over the sooty snout of a white mare. 

 

“What do you see when you look into her eyes?” Philippa asks Michael. The girl shrugs. 

 

“A means of transport and labor.” She answers and the woman clicks her tongue at her. 

 

“I asked what you see when you look into her eyes,” the woman says. “Not what she is used for.”

 

Michael isn’t sure where this lesson is going. Shouldn’t she be with Horace trying to move the pots? 

 

“Here, look.” Philippa says when she sees the girl struggling. Michael steps in front of the mare, Philippa takes Michael’s hand and lays it on the white mane.

 

“What do you see?”

 

Michael looks into the large dark eyes of the animal, the hair is soft and course beneath her hand. She feels a gentleness, an aura of tranquility. 

 

“I see,” Michael hesitates when she feels grass beneath her feet, she’s wearing her boots but she swears she is barefoot. “I see a field. I feel wind against me. I am running but I am not afraid. I see the farm from far away.”

 

“And what else?” Philippa asks. 

 

Michael sees herself, her hand obscured, she feels and sees herself touching the mare. She’s inside the horse’s mind, watching herself. She smiles broadly, almost laughing. 

 

“I see me.” 

“You possess a sight to see through the eyes of animals,” Philippa explains. “This can be a useful tool to use to your advantage.”

 

Michael discovered she could see into the minds of other horses as well as some of the dogs and one barn cat named Mister Crumb. But it was the white mare with her black snout that seemed to carry the strongest connection. 

 

Her name was Smoke, she had bred three of the four foles on the estate, all slated to be champions for Lord Pike. He was a man of few vices, but one of them was the King’s sport. Horse racing, though he never gambled, he simply enjoyed the athleticism of the animal. 

 

As she hand feeds Smoke hay the sun begins to set over the estate. Days of training her mind are catching up to her, the pots had moved a little more but she was growing frustrated she hadn’t made more progress with them.

 

“She likes you,” She looks over her shoulder to see Lord Pike approaching her, cane in hand. 

 

“Smoke has a sweet nature.” Michael tells him. 

“I think you have made quite the impression on her.” He says reaching out and scratching the mare’s thick ears. 

 

She shakes her head, hair falling over her forehead giving the equine the illusion of bangs. 

 

“We are friends now.” Michael says, rubbing the thick neck of the animal, Christopher watches as Smoke leans into her touch naturally.

 

“She’s yours.” He announces and Michael gasps. 

“No- I could not, sir. She is a prize winning breeder I could not-“

 

“She’s given me all that she has,” He interrupts. “I have three stallions that she helped sire. She deserves a peaceful life with a heart as gentle as her own.”

 

Michael can hold it in no longer, with a great deep breath she finally speaks her mind- in part because his growing kindness is foreign to her and she wants to know why he is not like other men and second because she needs to know what he hopes to gain from helping her.

 

“My lord,” she begins. “You have been more generous with your wealth and your time than you have any right to be- no, please, let me finish. But I cannot help but wonder why.” 

 

Christopher has asked himself that as well. Through his own investigations of Michael Burnham he would admit that at first it had begun out of pity, but more so because he simply found it deplorable how she had been treated. He was not so naive to admit that he was nurturing a crush on her but that was not the entire motive behind why he did what he did. He simply did not think it right that a person of her skill and intelligence be treated in such ways. 

 

Clearing his throat and composing himself, for he had also never been spoken to before in such a way, he says,

 

“Because it... it was the right thing to do.” He answers simply. “I know that after what you have been through taking my sincerity to heart may be difficult. But please know that I am nothing if not sincere. The things I have witnessed you do, the wonders that you and Horace and Philippa are capable of are things I could have only imagined. If there is a darkness that lurks in Gallowglass, which I believe there is, then it is also only right that we put an end to it.” 

 

With that he bows to her and takes his leave, leaving her once more confused. The right thing to do was often plagued with selfish ambitions. She was not ready to take that as his final answer, so she follows him.

 

“Wait,” she calls out, he stops and half turns. “There must be more. What personal stake do you have in this?” 

 

“I told you,” he begins. “Lorca is an old friend. His well being is important to me.”

“No,” she says shaking her head. “There must be something else.” 

 

Christopher sighs, shrugging.

 

“Is it so hard to believe that I am simply a good man?” He asks her and for a moment his question leaves her mute. 

 

Yes, it was hard to believe he was a good man. Men in his position could act the part of a gentleman, reciting the lines, opening doors, rising when ladies enter, but their actions that lay underneath such veneer was often more insidious. More often than not their actions seemed to be counterintuitive to one another. 

 

“Are you?” She asks him, taking a step closer. 

“Yes.” He answers and Michael listens to her Sight, using it in a different way. Horace needed physical touch to see inside her mind, perhaps she did not. She hadn’t before when it had warned her of others. 

 

Michael feels a despair from him, a longing of some kind, she smells something sterile and overpowering. She hears the familiar sounds of the rattling walls of an asylum. Confusion, anger, vengeance; it all paints a colorful pallet of tastes. He had been hurt, he had lost someone he cared for very much. A familial relation, someone lost to madness and possibly murder. 

 

“I think I do understand you better now,” she says, feeling embarrassed she had questioned his motives, ashamed she had disbelieved him. “I am sorry for not believing you.” 

 

“I think you have every right to air on the side of caution,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I had the ability to see into others as you do.”

 

Michael frowns and begins walking, he joins her.

 

“Be careful what you wish for, my lord.” 

 

Michael slips her arm in his, his height casting a shadow over the dirt and straw covered floor. She imagines for a moment it not Lord Pike she walks so easily with but Lord Lorca. That perhaps in her own little fantasy she had saved him and found him a piece of heaven to share with her. They could have dogs, Sylvia could play all day with them, Culbar could come and Stamets too. Even the girls, Detmer and Owosekun. 

 

In her fantasy perhaps it was not Lord Pike who had come to heroically to her rescue, but Lord Lorca. That he was the one who had defied Lord Sarek, kicked the door down and carried her to freedom. 

 

But it was in the cold harsh light of the sun when she tilts her head to look at Lord Pike that she remembers it was not so, not as she wished. That though Fiddlehead was truly a haven for her it was not her home. Her home called her from far away, across hills and seas. It was not at Gallowglass either, but a piece of her remained there too. 

 

Perhaps the foreboding warning of the dead Lady Lorca had been right all along. That her soul belonged to Gallowglass now. But she would get it back. And she would use whatever forces were now at her fingertips to save his lordship. She would not go quietly either. She would bring the heavens down upon that great house; the mighty falcon that adorned each crest would be hers to tame. 

 

She had been afraid once of the evil spirit that haunted those endless halls. Now, with her power awakening in ways she could never have imagined, she would be the nightmare the spirit would come to dread. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture Sir Horace Croft being played by Andy Serkis if that helps lol


	18. Chapter Eighteen

The music was different this time, she didn’t know how but after spending so long in that house Michael knew when something had changed. She stood before the entrance to his chambers, she wore the same governess gown as before. She knew she was dreaming but she pretended for a moment it was all real. That there had never been any evil spirit that possessed the house, that it was simply old and filled with legend. 

 

She can smell the dry wood smoldering within the fire. She presses her hand to the door and she feels the heat emanating from it. 

 

Michael enters without fear. He plays, with his back to her, back straight and movements elegant and perfect but slow. 

 

“Gabriel.” She calls out his name, knowing it is a dream makes it easier to say it. There’s no need for formality in this realm. In this room, they can make whatever rules they like as he once promised.

 

“You left.” He speaks with slow sorrow. 

“You know I had no choice.” She tells him and she can see him nod.

 

“Did you know?” He asks and she comes closer. He turns slightly, still playing, it is then she can see his hands are raw and bloody from playing for so long. 

 

The sight is terrible to behold. 

 

“About your mother.” He says but his hands can’t seem to stop playing. She can’t bear it, she can’t answer him yet. Instead she grapples with his wrists, his blood causing her to slip some against the ivory keys. He doesn’t fight her. In their dream, he does stop playing, but the piano has other ideas and the keys continue pressing down as if an unseen ghostly figure plays for him.

 

Holding his raw hands in her own she kneels in front of him, her heart breaking.

 

“I did not remember. Tell me you believe me.” She begs him, looking at his terrible messy hands. She kisses his bloody knuckles and she feels him cup her chin and she looks up, tears in their eyes. 

 

“I believe you.” He whispers before pressing his mouth to hers. The piano groans loudly as he presses her against it, his body hard and wanting against her. It’s not real... but it feels like it could be. Did she drift into another plain of existence where they were together in physical form? Did their souls silently move at night, crossing miles of land, to find one another again?

 

As if she had never been wearing it at all her dress is suddenly gone and she no longer feels the familiar burden of her corset as he carries her in his arms to his bed which had also suddenly appeared. In her dream the bed is softer than before, his hands are no longer bloodied, she feels no fear that the spirit will tear them apart. 

 

“I miss you,” he whispers against her lips. “I am dying without you.”

“I will come back.” She promises, spreading her legs and bringing him closer to her. He doesn’t feel like a dream yet everything around her tells her it is. The only solid, corporeal thing is him. 

 

Gabriel cradles her to him, she feels his lips on her neck and his manhood pleading entrance inside of her. She accepts him, having needed him for too long. It is a welcome feeling having him inside her once more. All the pain and fear disappear and all that’s left is them together, floating in the abyss. 

 

Michael feels his soul crying out to her own. He balances himself on nothing for the bed has ceased to exist here until it is only the two of them, rising up and looking down at her. 

 

“My angel.” He whispers. 

 

Michael opens her eyes and she’s in her bedroom at Fiddlehead Farm, Lord Pike’s country estate and rooster is crying out to wake the whole country side. She sighs deeply, rolling onto one side. She swears she can even feel that familiar ache between her legs, as if he had really been there. She rises and opens the curtains, the sun only just beginning to peak over the horizon. 

 

More lessons for today, one step closer to going back to him.

 

The fireplace was alive with red and orange flames, Philippa’s half moon shaped eyeglasses glinted and smoke billowed slowly in front of her face. Her stack of tarot cards under one palm. Pike, Bryce and Horace stood around as Michael watched the woman. There was an extreme element of mystique about Miss. Georgiou. She had never met someone like Philippa, neither in character or nationality. 

 

Michael wondered if she too had faced similar speculation and ridicule as herself when it came to her race.

 

“Your palm of your non-dominant hand, please.” Philippa says, resting her cigarette in a tray beside her. Michael slowly extends her left hand but the woman shakes her head. “They tried to beat it out of you, did they?” 

 

Michael feels the sting of the yardstick against her left hand, the screaming in her ear that a devil’s child writes backwards not forwards. 

 

“Yes.” She answers, thinly. 

“Then give me your non-dominant hand, Michael.”

 

Old wives tales still frighten children, especially children who were told they were the tale. She extends her right hand instead, having taught herself to use both but her left always had been stronger. 

 

“This is your heartline,” Philippa says taking her hand and gesturing to the first line at the top of her palm. “Then your head and your life, then lastly the fate. This is your passive hand, inherited traits and so on.” 

 

Then Philippa reaches for her left hand which is significantly stronger in grip and callous. 

 

“This is the dominant hand. The lines will tell me what has changed you.”

 

Michael had always been taught this was a silly parlor trick nannies used on their charges. Something to help get them to sleep by making up a story to go along with it. Michael wondered how many nannies had actually been like Philippa and herself and if perhaps there was ever anything to it.

 

“You do not fall in love easily,” Philippa says looking at her palm. “In fact your heart is ruled more by a logical mind but your emotions are deeply woven into your life. But you hide them because you fear they will make you seem weak. However you have a heart to love.” 

 

Michael shifts her eyes nervously as the woman inspects her hands, feeling insecure she should talk so openly about herself in front of so many people, it was not done in polite society. Once more she feels she is the object of morbid fascination only this time it is for a different reason. She knows they only mean well but old feelings die hard.

 

“Your fate line is deep,” Philippa continues. “As if it were branded into you at birth and though you have been hurt by others I sense no vengeance in your heart.” 

 

Michael isn’t sure how accurate that is. If Philippa knew of the torment Sybok had caused her she would know there were many ways in which Michael would have him suffer if she only had the power to. 

 

Philippa takes a firmer hold on her left hand, the woman’s lips part to speak but suddenly her grip changes from a simple touch to a hardness that causes Michael to gasp. The whole room grows tense as if something were latching onto Philippa. 

 

“Darling,” Horace says coming to her side, she holds up her hand to him. Her eyes are shut tightly, her glasses slipping down her nose. 

 

“It... it’s here,” Philippa says, the fire suddenly roars harder as a gust of wind causes the windows to shake. The candles set about the table are blown out and when Philippa opens her eyes again they are a cloudy grey. “What did you see?” She asks Michael hoarsely. 

 

“I... I do not-”

“ _ Show _ me what you saw.” Philippa says more strongly, her grip so strong on Michael’s hand the girl grows fearful for her safety, she can feel fingernails biting into her palm. 

 

“Perhaps we should stop.” Pike suggests but Horace shakes his head.

“No. We’re getting somewhere.” The mystical man says urgently. 

“She’s hurting her!” Pike says attempting to side step the shorter man to get to Michael but Horace holds him back. 

 

Michael wishes he would let Pike go, her hands is growing numb and her bones are stiffening. 

 

“You are...  hiding something.” Philippa says and then suddenly she groans loudly. “It’s so strong...” She’s not making any sense and the fire is growing hotter and Bryce stands to open a window for the room has grown stifling. 

 

“I am not.” Michael answers sharply but she feels that familiar door, the one she kept closed to Horace when he first looked into her mind, the one he came knocking on and she refused to let him in. He respected it, he let her have her secret. But Philippa was not letting up. She kept pressing, she kept turning the knob and banging on the door. 

 

A low growl emanates from behind it, the pacing of a caged animal with eyes the color of sapphires. 

 

“Show. Me.” Philippa orders again, her cloudy eyes remind Michael of a mad blind woman, a red vein appearing at her milky black pupils. “It is a curse... black magic. The whole house- the staff, the  _ beast _ .” 

 

Horace kneels at Philippa’s side, he seems to be coming around that this session should come to an end. 

 

“Pipa, let go.” He says softly but she shakes her head, her brow wetting with perspiration. Michael feels their connected hands growing equally as damp with sweat. 

 

“No!” Philippa shouts. “I am almost... there.” 

“Stop.” Michael says, she tries to rise but something is keeping her in her seat which has begun to tremble as well as the table and other things in the room; a window pane begins to crack under the pressure. 

 

“My God put a stop to it!” Bryce says passionately. 

 

The knob to the secret door inside Michael’s mind is slowly turning, she wants to let her in. But she can’t... she can’t-

 

The door swings wide open with one last push into her mind, the pressure too great and Philippa screams as their connection is suddenly cut in half and she falls backwards. Horace catches her, Michael’s hand red and chafed from the woman’s insanely, inhumanly tight grip.

 

Examining the two Bryce determines Philippa is in a worse state and orders Pike to see to Michael while she tends to the other. 

 

“It’s alright,” Horace assures his paramour as Bryce helps her to a sofa. The woman is obviously weak and can barely stand. 

 

Michael feels her strength slowly returning, her head aches terribly as she feels Lord Pike ease her slowly out of her chair. 

 

“You...” Philippa says weakly, panting. “You kept it from us.” 

“You need rest.” Bryce tells the woman but Philippa won’t have it, shaking her head.

“All this time... all this work and progress,” the woman goes on. “And it stands guard in  _ your _ mind.”

 

Michael grimaces at the woman’s tone, she had never heard her speak in such a way in the short time she had known her. She had admired Philippa’s power and ability and had hoped to use all she had learned from her. But she had kept things from them, hidden away. Things she had not wanted to admit to herself.

 

“What does she mean?” Pike asks Horace as he comforts Michael. 

“A beast from hell,” Philippa goes on when the other man does not answer. “Brought to this earth in terrible ways. The curse of Gallowglass stretches deeper than we knew.” 

 

Philippa gazes into Michael’s eyes and the younger woman watches as the color returns to them but the vein in her right eye is still swollen and red. The cloudiness disappears and she succumbs to her exhaustion and passes out. 

 

“I will see to her,” Horace says kindly to Bryce, then looks to Michael. “We must talk, later.”

 

Michael nods and watches as Horace lifts Philippa into his arms and carries her from the room. Strange, that for so long Michael had been told women were so dainty and delicate, that they were so finespun and fragile. She had never seen such strength in a woman before and it frightened her that she had seen so much beyond that locked room she kept away from everyone. 

 

“Michael,” Lord Pike says. “Will you at least tell me?” Turning to look at him, on his knees in front of her even with his injury that must be causing him pain she sighs deeply. 

 

“There is a place in my mind,” she begins slowly. “Where I keep things that I do not wish to remember. Like an attic, where you store all the things that shame you. She saw something in that room, something I hid away before I realized it’s true nature. And now I fear it has hurt any aid they might have brought to me.” 

 

Pike’s eyes are gentle, pitying once more. When Bryce says it is time for her to rest he lets her go once more. 

 

In the darkness of her beautiful ornate bedroom Michael wishes she had something to touch, something to hold onto that was hers. Nothing in this room belonged to her; not the bed, nor the paintings, nor the nightgown in which she slept. Her trunk and belongings were taken back to Vulcan to rot or for Sybok to burn. The only thing she had that was hers was herself and her sanity. 

 

But she still yearned to have more, to take something. Not to steal a possession, she was not a common thief. But to take  _ something _ ...

 

The idea came to her all on her own as she thought of her dream of Gabriel. The fantasy that when she walked with Lord Pike she pretended it was Lord Lorca; that they were happier in their own life together. 

 

Rising slowly and taking a candle with her, for she still had a natural fear and new found respect for darkness, she quietly moved to the second floor of the house. She took note of how the faces in these paintings did not seem to follow her, they simply let her be. 

 

Michael found his room easily enough using her new found intuition to her second sight. There was dim light coming from the inside and she sensed no dreams to be had. She licks her lips, unsure of herself for a moment. 

 

She scratches at the door more than she knocks. For a moment nothing happens but she remains in case something does. And when Lord Pike does answer the door he is as shocked to see her as she is being there herself. After his befuddlement is over a look of concerned crosses his face. 

 

But before he can use his voice or say her name she pushes him backwards into the room, her hand at the center of his chest. She finds it quite comical how easily she overpowered him. 

 

Closing the door quietly behind her she sets the candle down. 

 

“What ever is the matter?” He asks her quickly, keeping his voice low as to not wake the others. Swallowing she clasps her hands in front of her but then releases them for fear it will make her seem nervous, though she is.

 

“I want something that is mine.” She says and she feels stupid for saying such an idiotic thing. 

“Of course,” he says but his confusion hasn’t faded. “Name it.” 

 

“No,” she says shaking her head. “Not something that’s bought or given exactly- although it can be both.” She groans knowing how silly she sounds. He chuckles softly.

 

“I am not sure what you mean, Michael.” He says. 

 

Composing herself, finding the right words she tries again, 

 

“Do you ever just want to take something,” she says. “Anything? Something you just know you need?” 

 

Christopher takes a few steps towards his small desk, closing what she can only assume to be a journal. In the yellow and blue light of the room she sees him without the use of his cane or his brace. He limps and makes no effort to hide it. 

 

“I suppose I have felt a sort of compulsion before,” he answers as best he can. “But taking is not something a gentleman ought to do.”

 

Michael smiles at him, once more proving himself to be the epitome of a gentleman. The most noble of men, the opposite of all others she had ever known. Even her own beloved...

 

“What should a gentleman do?” She asks him, coming closer to him, noticing how her presence is affecting him... how it has always affected him. She recalls the first look he ever gave her, a minute expression, the smallest hint of attraction and desire that seems more evident to her now that it is in the past. 

 

“A gentleman should be caring and considerate,” he says as she continues to come closer towards him. “Courteous, compassionate.” 

 

“And have you not been all those things to me, Lord Pike?” She asks him, more quietly and more closely. He gazes down at her, feeling the abundant lure of her. 

 

“I... I like to think I have been.” He answers tightly. 

“I should like to... know you, but not as a gentleman.” 

 

For a moment she waits as his brain seems to catch up to her implication. She doesn’t want to give him a reason to say no so she rises up quickly and kisses him. She thinks it will be the same as when she kissed Lord Lorca, that somehow when she pulls away he’ll be standing there in the firelight of his study at Gallowglass and all will be right again.

But when she pulls away, her lips lingering only for a moment against his, does she realize the error of her ways. 

 

“I am sorry.” Christopher says as she turns sharply away, her hand over her mouth. She feels his hands on her shoulders as she shakes. She misses  _ him _ ... the touch isn’t the same, it’s foreign and unfamiliar. Nothing could replicate him. “You know in your heart this is not right.” 

 

“Why not? Why can it not be?” She asks him, her body trembling. She reaches back and touches his hand on her shoulder, it still doesn’t feel the same. 

 

“Because, dear girl, you love him.” She shakes her head at his words. “And I cannot pretend to be him.”

 

“I have made no promise to him,” she says through her sobs. “I have made no vow or committment or declaration of my affection to him and yet it feels like I am being unfaithful.” Now more than ever does she feel as if she’s betrayed him.

 

Christopher slowly turns her towards him. 

 

“That is because you have a kind heart, Michael.”

 

She tears herself away from him, wanting to throw something, hit something.

 

“I am tired of hearing that,” she says through clenched teeth. “I am tired of being told how docile and gentle I am. I am not. I have a heart that beats for revenge, that...  _ pounds _ with anger. I do not see what you and others see in me.” 

 

Despite her outrage he is not shaken by it. He simply listens.

 

“I am not what you think I am.” She says and he shrugs.

“I do not know how to make you see it,” he answers, sighing. “If so many see it in you then there must be something to it.”

 

Not knowing what else to say he goes back to his desk, sitting down and opening his journal again, leaving her to stand there for a minute. 

 

“I am sorry,” he says again when she turns to leave, looking over his shoulder. “I should like more than anything to no longer see you cry, to no longer look into your eyes and see despair.” Turning more fully towards his hands rest on his knees. “I should like to make love to you, but that is not what you truly need.” 

 

Michael feels a familiar pull in her belly, she can almost picture him being so considerate and soft with her in his bed. That he could make her forget everything with himself. But he has been too kind to her, too giving, she couldn’t take so selfishly. 

 

“Goodnight, Michael.” He says, turning back once more. Michael silently slips away, when he hears the click of his door he releases a heavy breath. She has no idea how close he almost came to giving into her request. But he was, after all, a gentleman.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, ooh, witchy woman  
> She's got the moon in her eyes.

Sir Horace Croft comes to Michael after her breakfast, he looks like he hasn’t slept all night but he attempts to make himself appear as presentable as possible. She pretends not to notice the state he is in so as not to harm his own vanity. He suggests a walk in the gardens, there seems to be no shortage of sunshine and beauty in this place; whereas Gallowglass had an endless surplus of fog and gloom. 

 

“When I looked into your mind, Michael, you only showed me one side. I respected your secrets. But you appealed to a certain nature of mine on purpose, didn’t you?” He says as they walk. Michael nods, she is ashamed but she cannot deny it. 

 

“I did. I am sorry.”

“You do not need to be sorry,” he tells her. “But I wish you would have at least told me.” 

 

Michael knows what he says is right, she should have told both he and Philippa what she had feared all along. But admitting it would mean something far more terrible. 

 

_ What must they think of me? What must Philippa think of me... _

 

It clenched Michael’s heart to think they would suspect of her such treachery. She had never felt such a need to redeem herself to two people before. She had never felt the urge and desire to prove her worth in such a way.

 

“How is Philippa?” She asks after a time.

“It took its toll on her,” he says grimly. “She will recover, as she always does. But I do not think she was entirely prepared for the power the dark force has.” 

 

Michael watches as Horace reaches into a bush and plucks a small flower and upon closer inspection she realizes it’s simply the white head of a weed, he holds it carefully between his two fingers.

 

“Will you no longer help me now?” She asks him, fearing the answer but needing to know.

“I cannot fathom abandoning you, Michael,” he says to her relief. “But make no mistake, it is difficult to banish a spirit such as this. It will take courage you have never felt before.”

 

“I am brave.” She assures him and he chuckles, placing the weedy bud in the palm of his hand.

“I have no doubt,” he says encouragingly. “But even the bravest have faltered. Here,” he extends his palm towards her and she watches with awe as the bud easily lifts into the air only a few inches. “Even doing something as simple as this brings me both pain and elation.”

 

He lifts it higher, then begins to turn the bud slowly. Michael looks him over, he doesn’t appear to be in pain but she was realizing the type of pain people like them felt was often internal than external,

 

“It takes so much energy to do something that appears so simple. This is only the remains of a dead thing that took so little from the earth. Bigger things, darker maleficent things, take more.”

 

Michael nods in understanding, he lets the bud drop into his palm once more. 

 

“You must speak to Philippa,” he concludes. “She told me what she saw. But she can help you interpret it better.”

 

“I fear I have disappointed her.” She says solemnly. 

“No, Michael,” he says kindly. “But it does concern her.”

 

Michael wasn’t sure which was worse; facing the woman as a disappointment or an object of fear. Approaching Philippa’s door she felt a great sense of trepidation, more so than she had ever felt before. Perhaps because this fear was born out of a powerful urge to live up to whatever expectations had been set by Philippa and Horace. They were the first people to encourage the power she had always been ashamed of, the power she had hidden from everyone else.

 

Now to think that they might abandon her because of her inability to confront her own secrets frightened Michael to her very soul. As she raised her hand a voice cut through her tension,

 

“Come in, Michael.” She started and had to recover, she had thought she had been quiet in the hallway, but then again she supposed sneaking up on a woman like Philippa was impossible.

 

Entering the room the woman looked far better than she had the night before. Color had returned to her face and even her hair, her eyes were no longer clouded over with the possession of a dark spirit. She sat upright in her bed reading a newspaper. 

 

“Come closer,” Philippa says gently, patting the bed beside her. Swallowing her fear and feeling like a child who has done some terrible wrong she approaches the bed and sits. Philippa folds the newspaper over and sets it aside. 

 

“I should have told you,” Michael blurts out. “But I was so afraid of what you would think of me.” 

 

Philippa takes her hand. 

 

“You must never be afraid of me, Michael,” Philippa says strongly. “But we must talk of what it is I saw.” 

 

Michael nods, she knew this was coming. The woman’s voice was gentile, comforting, a voice she had not heard in anyone except her own mother’s. But the memory of Michael’s mother was now tainted and it was something she was choosing at the time not to give credence to. There were other things that required her energy and attention. 

 

“What is  _ it _ ?” Michael asks her and the woman sighs deeply. 

 

“You know how there are guardian angels, sent and assigned by God to watch over us?” Philippa asks and the girl lowers her eyes, she knows where this is going. “Well, the Devil himself has similar beings. Only they watch over what the dark man sees as investment.”

 

Upon this Michael frowns.

 

“Investment?” She questions.

“When Lady Lorca communed with the evil that resides in the house there was a bargain that was made. Her soul and body as vessel in exchange for a child. What she did not realize was that evil has a way of tiptoeing around certain aspects of it’s bargains, leaving things out. Lady Lorca was just phase one of the deal, little did she know the true target as the child itself. Evil spirits cannot create life themselves, they must take what is already born.”

 

Michael thinks back to those terrible memories his lordship had shown her against her will; Lady Lorca desperate for a child, desperate to save her marriage, the horrible and overwhelming feeling of love fading away into resentment. The hope that a child would bring their bond back together, forging it stronger than metal. 

 

“She was double crossed by her own deal,” Philippa continues. “The evil wanted rebirth, but what good was rebirth into a woman already in her mid thirties with an aging body and a husband who no longer wanted her?” 

 

Michael shudders at the thought. The goal was Sylvia all along. 

 

“Why not just take over Sylvia from the moment she was conceived?” Michael asks. Philippa smiles sadly.

 

“Even evil must adhere to nature, Michael. And even evil grows bored. They thrive on activity. They are not sedentary beings, they need and desire action. Imagine an evil spirit resting for nine months in the womb, it would never have survived it’s first few weeks simply sleeping and growing. No, it needed to wait until the child was old enough to corrupt. An infant is not corruptible. But a child who has learnt shame and fear and trauma, that is easily manipulated.” 

 

It astounded Michael the level of depth to Philippa’s ability. In the few brief minutes they had shared a connection she had been able to see everything Michael had experienced; all of the doubts and theories she had felt during her time at Gallowglass were now being given the credit they deserved. She saw them more clearly than Michael ever could have hoped to.

 

“And... what of his lordship?” She asks, finally looking to Philippa. 

“The man is more cursed than all the rest,” Philippa says, she rises and goes to her trunk. Opening it she begins searching for something, Michael looks on as she removes ancient handwritten books, scrolls, little trinkets on string some with animal bone attached. Then she removes a velvet black box.

 

Lifting the top of the box, Philippa takes out a silver coin the size of a child’s palm. She hands it to the girl who studies it. On one side is the depiction of an aristocratic looking man’s profile, when she turns it over the other side is black and depicts a monstrous looking wolf. 

 

_ Whatever had slain poor Mrs. Landry was far larger...  _ Mr. Saru had once commented to her when they had discussed the cause of Landry’s death. He had not believed then that a good tempered, domesticated hound such as Zeus had been the cause of the woman’s death... and Michael had locked away her fears that they had all known what the true killer had been all along.

 

Who had been there... who had found Landry... who had found his mistress slaughtered in the foyer... the man was a recluse, why would he have been out? The players were all there who had witnessed and covered up the first murder. Michael understands Stamets better now in this moment than she ever had before.

 

_ I have considered it and I refuse. I owe him too much. I will not be a  _ **_murderer_ ** _. _

 

Stamets had wanted Culbar to kill his lordship... at the time she had assumed killing him would end the curse, but curses and spells never had such obvious loopholes. Why else would they be so afraid of him? Why else would he purposefully lock himself away?

 

The monster chasing her in her nightmares...

 

“Hellhounds are predominant figures all across the known world,” Philippa explains. “From this bitter English soil to lands filled with snow and ice, they stand guard and watch over the dead. They prowl and savage innocent souls and harvest them for their masters, Michael.”

 

Shaking her head, bottom lip trembling she forces the coin back into the woman’s hands. 

 

“No, no, he... he tries to protect, Sylvia.” Michael says and the woman nods gently.

“Sit, Michael, do not work yourself up.” The woman guides Michael back to the bed and holds her hand, the coin clasped between them.

 

“When I opened that door in your mind I saw  _ him _ ,” Philippa explains. “The real him, the hidden him, the tortured man held prisoner. Yes, he does wish to protect the child. From the evil as well as himself. There are two sides to him, you see. A mirror reflection, the man looking into the mirror and the beast that stares back. The real Lord Lorca vanished long ago. What remains now is the man that was made from the curse. The man you fell in love with.” 

 

Michael glances away, looking at the half open door. She hears footsteps running, they are getting closer. Lord Lorca enters the room, announces the spell has been broken and they can run away and be together and Sylvia is all right and so are all the others. He would take her in his arms and Philippa would give them her blessing. He looks so handsome in her daydream.

 

“When the evil spirit is not in physical form he is the watcher, he guards the house. That is his penance. He makes sure others do not hurt the child as well as making sure no one leaves,” Philippa goes on. 

 

“What about Landry? He murdered Landry because she was corrupted by evil, she was going to try and kill Sylvia. Why would he not let her accomplish her goal?” Michael questions. 

 

“I have my own theory,” Philippa says. “As I said there are two things inside of him that are at war. The beast and the man. I think when Landry was killed her intention was to do harm to Miss. Tilly and something in his lordship fought back. Perhaps it was not intentional, I am not sure. But he refused to play along and broke through his bonds for a moment, long enough to kill the vessel that had been taken by the spirit.”

 

“Why not take over Sylvia now? How do we know it hasn’t yet?” Michael asks hurriedly. 

 

“Because now he’s fought back. He’s stronger than before but still under the control of evil. I do not think the spirit wishes to risk the child’s life just yet. And remember, Lady Lorca had tried to fight back too. She had wanted to kill the girl while she was still an infant and his lordship stopped her then too. There are many complicated feelings surrounding the whole affair, Michael. To put it bluntly, I do not know why the evil is biding its time. Maybe because it knows once it’s reborn it’s power will be more limited now that it will be mortal again.”

 

Michael rises and begins pacing the floor. 

 

“Then how do we kill it?” She asks her. Philippa smiles and shakes her head.

“It is not that simple,” she explains. “You cannot kill it. It must be banished and sent back to its own realm. I think it has grown comfortable here. While it is formless and shapeless it can move in between worlds. While it is in mortal form it is held back by our own laws of nature.” 

 

Growing mildly frustrated Michael speaks again, on the heels of Philippa’s own words,

 

“Then tell me how to banish it!” 

 

Philippa narrows her eyes at the girl, her breathing elevated and her cheeks red. She rises and looks the girl up and down.

 

“This is not something you just run off and do, Michael.” Philippa says, her voice stern. “It is painful and you could die.” 

 

Michael shrugs. What care did she have for her safety? What did it matter? All that mattered was saving those people in that terrible house. And burning it to the ground once and for all.

 

“I do not care about myself,” she says. “I need to make this all right.” 

 

Philippa touches the girl’s cheek in a motherly way and for a moment the lovely memories of her own mother do return to her, unsoiled by the revelation of her what her mother had done. Michael’s mother is smiling down at her, cooing and making noises and faces. Her love is practically oozing out of her and into Michael, washing and baptizing her in white light.

 

“Please,” Michael begs. “Is there a way to save him?” 

 

Philippa knew what it was like to love; she had loved Horace for the last twenty years through hardship, through violence against them. She had loved someone before him too, a man who had been tormented and lost and abandoned her. Philippa had lost all hope in ever finding that kind of redeeming love again, the kind of love that makes you strive to deserve someone. 

 

And she had all but given up when a lonely man with the saddest most afflicted and agonizing eyes she had ever seen happened to fall into her life. She had never seen a white man before, he was unusual, not very tall, not very handsome either. But when he handed her his money and refused to sleep with her she felt an energetic connection when their fingertips touched.

 

_ Please, just don’t sleep on the streets tonight,  _ he had said, stumbling away, lost and afraid. 

 

Philippa had saved him, taking him with her to where she paid for their night with his money. She had held him as his fever spiked, as his body shook and as she cared for a complete stranger. She had been young, so had he then, and she still felt the same wonderful cosmic feeling and connection to him she did as when he first kissed her. 

 

The butterflies never went away; with a single look he could unmake her and put her back together again. With a single touch she felt more woman than whatever her genetic makeup told her she was. They had made new lives together and they fit and worked in perfect harmony. 

 

It was because of this understanding and true love that Philippa did decide to help Michael. It would’ve been easy to persuade the girl that the man was a lost cause, that they should let it alone and let the house go and let nature take its course. But would Philippa herself ever be able to let Horace go? 

 

“There is always a way to break a curse,” she decides in the few seconds that passed between the two women. “But it will require more than you’ve ever given before.” 

 

“I am willing,” Michael answers her quickly. “I have been frightened by this evil long enough. I am not afraid.” 

 

“Then I will help you.” 


	20. Chapter Twenty

Michael finds Lord Pike that afternoon in the barn, he’s saddling up own horse. He looks handsome even in his stubbornness not to let his valet help him. She is sure it is ailing him with his knee. 

 

“Lord Pike,” she says politely, a little embarrassed by the night before. “May I join you?” 

“I would be honored. Dixon, fetch Miss. Burnham the saddle-”

“That will not be needed.” Michael assures him, walking past him towards Smoke’s stable. She unlocks it and raises her hand to the mare’s snout. 

 

A queer and new found confidence surrounds her, embodies her.

 

“You intend to ride without saddle at all?” Lord Pike asks, chuckling warmly. Michael looks at him over her shoulder, smiling. 

 

“Indeed.” 

 

It was to his great shock when, moving a stool to the horse and stepping upon it, he watched as Michael Burnham mounted the horse skirts and all. Both legs dangling down from the mare’s sides, gripping the leather bridle in her hands firmly. 

 

“Father was a great horseman,” Michael explains, maneuvering the horse towards the man still on the ground. “Lord Sarek trusted no other with his champions. He taught me to ride in secret, and always bareback.” 

 

It had been many years since Michael had been atop a horse before and Smoke was not the largest she had even ridden. It truly amazed Michael how easily she fit back onto the horse’s back though, how comfortable she was. How it felt like it had only been yesterday since her last ride. 

 

_ It is impractical for women to ride in such a way,  _ Michael’s father explained.  _ A lady, perhaps. But a woman like you, Michael, ha-ha! You will put all the men to shame! _

 

Michael felt a swarm of adrenaline start from her toes, through her legs, her torso and belly, her throat and finally her head and for a moment she was a little dizzy. She smiles though, stroking Smoke’s mane.

 

“Are you joining me, Lord Pike?” She asks him with a coy smirk. He laughs and finally allows Dixon to aid him in mounting his own horse. 

 

“Take it easy on the old man, miss.” Dixon says, smirking and Michael laughs.

“I shall return him to you in perfect health.” 

 

Michael’s intention had not been to be outwardly flirtatious but things have a way of happening before you realize it and she found she was quite comfortable with it, indeed. 

 

They didn’t race their horses or force them to go over heart stopping jumps, they simply trotted them through the estate grounds and down the trails stopping once or twice to admire some of the wild life that made its home here. Michael felt quite comfortable on top of Smoke, though her legs and womanhood grew a little sore after years of not being in such a position. 

 

“When we go to Gallowglass will you come?” She asks him when they take a break to rest the horses. He leans against a tree massaging his knee, a light breeze tickled the foliage around them. He shakes his head. 

 

“I think I have done all I can,” he says kindly. “I took you out of that place, you are healthy and strong again. I believe the things I have seen are real but this is not my fight. I would only be in the way and of no real use, at least I am a man who knows his limitations.”

 

Michael takes his hand and he grips hers in his own.

 

“I can never repay you.” She says, repeating a now familiar mantra between them.

“I told you-”

“Yes, I know.” She cuts in, refusing to look away from him. Noting how his own eyes look to their conjoined hands before returning to settle on her face; as if taking her in for the first time. 

 

He thinks for a moment, sighing. She knows what he’s thinking but he’s too much of a gentleman to ask for it. Last night was the closet he had ever come to telling her what he really wanted but he didn’t want her to lie with him if it only meant she believed it was repaying a debt. She knows what he wants, he wants her. And in a strange way she does feel attracted to him but she doesn’t love him. 

 

Because Michael felt, though it saddened her to a point, that she could live without seeing Lord Pike again. She couldn’t, however, live without Lord Lorca. 

 

“Last night you said something,” she begins slowly. “You said you wished to make love to me.”

 

She feels him tense under her hand but she does not let go. He clears his throat and nods. She almost smiles at his behavior, that he should be so easily distracted or uncomfortable by her repeating his own words back to him. But he was a gentleman and rarely did they speak of such things so openly. 

 

Especially to a woman.

 

“How would you?” Her questions roots him in his place, she takes no pleasure to see him squirm but she cannot seem to help herself. She desires to know how he would touch her, she wants to know. A strange part of needs to know; the part of her that had been beaten down and silenced by the society that raised her. That she was not a real woman at all and that men like him should fear her and want no part of her.

 

For Michael, the question was more about reclaiming something that had been taken from her. A deep part of her own femininity that had laid dormant for so long. It was more than skin deep to her. 

 

“Why do you seem hell bent on embarrassing me?” He asks her, though his tone suggests a more sensual nature and for the smallest of seconds it doesn’t sound like his voice. 

 

For his eyes are at her own and she inhales sharply as he openly looks her up and down. It is a look she has seen before but from Lord Pike it is wholly different. Different from the strange men whose names she cannot remember who have leered at her, different from Master Sybok and different from Lord Lorca. 

 

But it was not out of a realization that she loved Lord Pike, for she did not. It was something else. He was a conduit into a world she knew but did not belong to. From him she could ask the questions of why she was the object of so much fascination and know she would receive an honest answer. Perhaps he could give her insight into what made her both desirable, exotic and sexual and also repugnant and unwanted. 

 

There was a mutual attraction between the two of them that seemed to continue to pull them together. And she found herself amazed at how different it was from Lord Lorca. 

 

“I do not wish to embarrass you,” she tells him. “I simply wish to know.” 

 

Pike laughs softly, 

 

“You seem very different from who you were last night.” 

 

Michael nods and glances around at the solitude that affords them the comfort of such a conversation. The animals patrolling, the birds singing. Nature in its purest and greenest form. 

 

“It was not meant to happen last night I see that now. But I should like to know.” 

 

Christopher was torn indeed. It was not like a woman to ask him such things; it was too lurid and unladylike. He had a feeling Michael would baulk at the claim she was a lady at all. She was different, somewhere caught in between all the pomp and circumstance that surrounded his social life. She was a grey area, a tantalizing woman with her own mind who dared speak so passionately of such things. 

 

It’s what made him stay and answer,

 

“I would like you to feel pleasure from it,” he answers, though his voice shakes at first. “I would want you present, emotionally and mentally for it.” The longer he stares into her eyes the more confident he grows. 

 

The sharp inhales of breath, the way her small chest rises and falls as he continues to speak urges him on into a realm that was unknown to him,

 

“I would touch you-”

“Where?” She interjects, her cheeks flushed. 

“Everywhere.” He answers with his own exhale, realizing how closely they have stepped towards one another, his hands on her hips. “I would kiss you until you were out of breath, your lips, your cheeks, you neck,” he feels her hands at his chest and he feels his own body’s natural reaction to her. “Your breasts,” he goes on, his voice rougher than before. “Your belly, your hips, I would lick the honey from between your thighs until you begged me to stop.”

 

With a gasp she’s against him, his pelvis colliding with her own and she squirms against the hardness she feels, his own whimper pooling hot warmth into her womanhood.

 

Having never explained his thoughts, desires and feelings to a woman in such depth and detail he finds it extremely arousing. He feels like he’s unburdening himself in a way. And for Michael it only helps to reinforce the lost part of herself. 

 

“What else?” She can’t help but ask him. He hasn’t kissed her, any part of her, yet the feel of him against her is almost more intimate. The words he speaks brings a terrible but familiar ache to her body as if he were actually performing each act that he spoke of.

 

“What would you do to me here?” She whispers against his chin. She feels him turning them until she’s pressed against the tree he had been supporting himself on with him blocking her from escape, but she does not want to escape. 

 

“I would have you here,” he whispers darkly against her lips, so close they share the air between them. “I would hike up your skirts how show you how much of a gentleman I cannot be when I am with you. That I feel completely unbound and free from the laws of men when I am near you. I would give up wealth, titles and life for you.” 

 

Such a declaration might have been too much for any other ordinary young girl who found herself alone with someone who could bring her harm. It only fueled a fire in Michael, and it served a deeper purpose for her. 

 

She was not some test he had to pass to reveal his true nature, for she had seen that his decorum was not a facade for her or for others. At any moment he could hurt her, bend her to his will if he wanted. But he wasn’t. He was simply reciting and describing the very thing that lay in the gap between them. 

 

Michael feels his hand doing exactly what he said he wished to do, slowly as if waiting for her to stop him. More of her leg and soon her thigh is exposed, her darling white stockings ending at the top of her knee and the very same hand revealing so much dark skin he’s pressing her thigh away from the other, and she lets it fall. 

 

“I would make sure you found your pleasure over and over again,” he says, now unable to stop, his fingertips ghosting along the path towards the center of her. “I would make sure you cried out long before I found my own,” he whispers along the column of her throat. “And when you were finally spent I would hold you and shower you in gentle affection.”

 

“I want you.” She finally manages to say.

“I know.” He says nodding, her eyes have closed as she feels his hand closer to her womanhood, until he finally cups it and she cries against his chest. “Because  _ I’m _ here.”

 

Michael’s eyes snap open and in the wild wilderness of the forest that surrounds them...  _ he _ is here. The tips of the trees create a canopy above them, tunneling them as she feels her pleasure mounting under the pressure of his touch. Her love is here,  _ he _ is here. 

 

Lord Lorca is against her, his hand channeling the deepest desires from her. She clutches his shoulders, her breath leaving her. 

 

“I’m sorry.” She gasps as she feels herself coming closer. She should not have been so naive to think that their bond could have only transcended through the world of dreams and nightmares. It was too powerful, it was not some latent thing huddling alone in the dark. It burned bright and as hot as the sun. 

 

“I forgive you.” He whispers against the sweaty skin of her temple. “And I am sorry.”

 

She shakes her head, she wants to tell him all is forgiven. That she will come for him, that she will undo the wretched curse that has been inflicted upon him. She wants to say all these things and more when his eyes begin to visibly darken considerably but his hand never stops. 

 

“Gabriel.” She says, fearful as his pupils seem to expand so greatly that all color and hue disappear, in fact they seem to grow large... he grins morbidly and his teeth are so terrifying she turns her face away. 

 

She reaches to stop him from touching her, her fear overpowering any desire she had previously felt. She cries out at the feel of it, his hand had also expanded into a giant five fingered paw, hariar and broader, the claws scraping against the sensitive insides of her thighs. Something tears her dress and she is thrown to the ground. 

 

The sky has darkened above them, there is little light now. The sun was swallowed by the threatening cloud. She attempts to crawl away, the horses are nowhere to be seen. She feels a pressure on her back; is it a hand? His knee? A foot? She doesn’t know. All she knows is that she cannot move. The animals have fled, the birds sing no more.

 

In the harsh rustling of leaves and wind she hears the laughter of Sylvia and the crying of a baby. 

 

_ Someone go to it! Someone go to it!  _ She thinks madly. The combination of Sylvia’s carefree laughter and play coupled with the horrible and painful cries of an infant create an obtuse and chilling harmonic. She cannot stand it. She rolls over onto her back when she feels the weight lifted from her, only to be pinned down by the monster of her nightmare.

 

In the back of her mind she tries to remember when she had even begun to dream at all...

 

_ Is it a dream? _

 

The beast above her snarls, drool oozing from it’s curled upper lip and she grits her teeth. Pressing her small palm to it’s chest the thing is immovable like stone. She feels her dress continue to be torn apart by it’s questing paws, sharp and calloused. 

 

“It’s not you,” she tells it through her sobs, she’s powerless to stop such a creature of evil physically. Something had broken through the power over it once before, something had caused him to kill Landry and save Sylvia. “This is not who you are!” She shouts, grabbing the sides of it’s massive and sturdy head. 

 

It pauses, those terrible black eyes gazing into her own. And for a moment she swears he seems to relax under her touch. 

 

“It’s me,” she tells him, her tears falling from her cheeks to be absorbed into the soil beneath her. “Do you not remember me?”

 

The beast blinks dumbly, leans into her and she stiffens as it sniffs her neck and down to her breasts. Where was poor Pike in all of this, she wondered. Where was she? If the beast decided to tear out her throat would she live or die...?

 

The beast leans back and she stiffens as it’s long, wet tongue slithers along the side of her neck, from one side to the other before growling harshly, blowing air in her face. The stink of it’s maw is grossly terrible. 

 

Then an almost catlike purr and whine follow as it nuzzles her breasts and then lower to her belly, sniffing deeply. She’s so tense she cannot even shake with fear. Her knees are spread so wide it’s painful for the beast is wide and hard as a rock. 

 

When it lifts its giant head again she swears she not only reads recognition in it’s face but the black iris’ are slowly fading, the blue returning. She breathes a sigh of relief. Then she feels the monster’s hands once more; the claws seemed to had shortened to an extent but it begins raising her skirts once more. 

 

“Wait.” She says urgently, stilling it’s impatient and seeking hands once more. He growls harshly into her face, unsatisfied she should deny him. But this is what he was... wasn't it? If she loves him, if she should save him, should she not see him for what he really was? 

 

She leans up, touching his rough cheek, the skin coarse, it almost felt like burnt flesh. He smelled musky and earthy and glancing above them she saw the sky was still grey but there were pockets of blue here and there. In the distance she hears the cry of a falcon...

 

Looking into his eyes once more she kisses his rough cheek. 

 

“I love you, Gabriel.” She whispers and he whines once more. She feels him there more urgently, heavy and hard against her womanhood. She feels one of his large hands at the back of her neck, grinding his hips into her center creating a sinful friction. Michael scratches his hairy chest as he ruts against her in a heady fashion. 

 

She’s practically lifted off the ground by his immense size, her legs limply hanging onto his thighs as he hovers above her, licking her neck before tearing open the front of her dress with his sharp teeth. The fear tickles her belly into a hot boiling thrill. 

 

Surely this was the quickest path to hell she had ever been exposed to.

 

Michael can faintly feel anger from the evil spirit, a swirling rage as it tries to control him again. A gratification sweeps over Michael and she smiles to herself.

 

_ He’s not yours anymore,  _ she thinks strongly. 

 

As if his insistent grinding wasn’t enough she feels him trying to enter her; he’s larger than he would be in his human form and far more demanding, yet he is careful with her all the same. Was this real... where were they? When had she stopped living in her world? 

 

“Take me, Gabriel,” she whispers into his ear, knowing the pain will be worth what power she now has over him. “I love you.” She repeats warmly. The black and blue eyes look into her own as she feels him beginning to move inside her... he’s thicker, hotter. She clenches her fists against his wide shoulders as he penetrates her. 

 

In the gloom of the forest her scream echoes through the dense trees and brush. He howls like a fabled nightmare, but she clings to him all the same. He’s her monster now. 

 

He wastes little time and soon he has her propped against his hips and he’s thrusting his large phallus in and out of her; in and out... the power she feels beneath his muscles, the madness of this whole affair seems to embolden her more. One of Satan’s very own hellhounds, brought to his knees for her. Who was to be feared more? 

 

But hadn’t maidens always possessed this power?

 

Michael pushes the pain aside, the feeling of him inside of her is extraordinary. She grunts when he hits a particular spot inside her, so strong is the feeling it takes her by surprise and she cries out in shock. 

 

It seems every encounter in the physical world or wherever she was now seemed to give her new insight into what her body was capable of. 

 

Though his movements were animalistic in nature, sharp and forbidden, there was a queer gentleness to him; it was her Gabriel breaking through to her, she was sure of it. 

 

“I will save you,” She tells him, panting and biting her lip at times to stifle the pain mixed with pleasure. “I will take you away.”

 

His grunting increased, his nostrils flared and she swore she saw more of the man returning. The cruel animal within was losing its power over him. 

 

All thoughts of whether any of this were real or where Pike had disappeared to faded from Michael as the blue eyes of her lover seemed to erupt before her. 

 

Clutching her to his body, she feels him begin to alter, even as their bodies were connected below the waist. She hears bone crunch, organs shifting, even his own manhood does not feel so large within her.

 

Michael watches as his face contorts, muscles flexing and the veins in his neck protruding. He’s lowering her, as gently as he can in his current state, and he settles her carefully on the ground.

 

If Michael had not been previously exposed to such feet’s of the paranormal she would have surely believed she was indeed mad. But that was not the case. 

 

She was sane, she was sound. And she was holding her lover, seeing him for who he really was. He wasn’t truly a monster, not to her. He was simply a man.

 

The sun returned, the birds flocked to the sky. The natural sounds of the forest returned. Wherever the dark force that had brought them together had gone it’s retreat signified something more powerful to Michael.

 

It meant her own power had indeed grown, and her power over Gabriel had seemed to never be stronger.

 

He lay above her, they both seemed weightless, immune to shame and regret.

 

Now, fully returned to his human form, he looked severely pained that perhaps he had caused her harm; examining her bruises in great detail she cupped his face gently, 

 

“It does not matter.” She tells him. She feels him slowly slipping away from her, the abyss that had taken him away and removed him from this place before was coming to take him again. 

 

Gabriel takes her hand, 

 

“You cannot come for me.” He says and she shakes her head, their connection growing fainter. 

 

“I will.” She promises but he shakes his head. 

“No, Michael, I cannot risk you!” He says his voice making his words seem more like an order. 

 

“ _ You _ cannot command  _ me _ to keep away.” She says and he grows fainter, as if he’s disappearing from existence, becoming invisible. 

 

“You... are... too... precious.” His voice is quiet, far away without echo. 

 

Michael feels the softness of a bed beneath her, the forest blinking in and out of focus, as if illuminated by candlelight. 

 

“She wants our-”

 

Michael is upended from her dream, faces hover over her and for a moment she cannot remember where she is or who these people are. She must have tried to get away for a hand holds her down firmly. 

 

After a moment she sighs in relief that she does know these people, their faces clear. 

 

“You were out for some time,” Philippa says, the candlelight creating queer shapes over her face and the ceiling above, their shadows reminding her of the trees and forest. 

 

“What happened?” Michael croaks, her throat dry,

“We were talking and you went into some sort of trance.” She hears Pike’s voice say.

 

It had been a dream... all of it? Had she asked him to tell her of his desires, was that what started it all?

 

_ No, that was  _ more _ than a dream... _

 

She lifts the cuffs of her nightgown and to the astonishment of all in the room, except of course Philippa and Horace, Michael’s arms were covered in bruises and red welts.

 

Welts that looked significantly like hand prints. 

 

“Dear God in heaven.” She heard Bryce utter somewhere in the room. 

 

“He contacted me,” Michael begins by sitting up in the bed, unfatigued by the whole experience much to her own surprise.

 

“What did he say?” Horace asks.

 

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

 

“He needs me to find him, to save him.” The lie was easy, too easy in fact. She gave nothing away. Not a single hint that he warned her to keep away. It was only his own fears for her safety, she could handle herself. 

 

_ But what about them?  _

 

Still, it was too late. The lie had grown and now had a life of its own. There was no time to back peddle now. 

 

Philippa and Horace were intelligent and careful, they could navigate this with her. 

 

She feels Philippa’s hand over her hand that rests of her stomach. 

 

“Was the spirit present?” She asks Michael and she nods.

“For a time. I think it... got scared.” She answers. 

 

For a moment Philippa’s thumb simply traces the knuckle on Michael’s index finger, reminding the girl of a time when she could not sleep for her nightmares were too great and her mother played with her hair until she finally succumb to sleep. 

 

It was beginning to lull Michael into a state where she would have gladly told Philippa anything. The woman’s eyes are watching her face for any hint of deception, instead she suddenly releases Michael’s hand as if something had pulled on her arm and she was turning to see who or what it was. 

 

“Lord Pike has found something that may help us to realize what evil it is we will be fighting.” Philippa says, rising and folding her hands together. 

 

Yet something in the expression on her face tells Michael something else, as if the woman has just been given extremely important information that had nothing to do with what Lord Pike had found. Whatever it was, Philippa was keeping it to herself. 

 

For when Michael tried to look into her mind all she was met with was a giant wall made of every stone known to man. She realized she wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the hardest to write mostly because, well, I've never written a demonic sex crazed hellhound before... so there's that lol And don't worry, our accursed star-crossed lovers will be reunited very soon!
> 
> But... be careful what you wish for ;)


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family histories are revealed.

“I have been doing some research,” Christopher says, after Michael had redressed they all converged in his library. The hour was quite late, perhaps even the witching hour which would have been heavily appropriate in Michael’s opinion.

 

Philippa was dressed like the mysterious lady she was, inhaling slowly around her cigarette, Bryce was wrapped in a shawl with a cap on her head. The two gentlemen were fitted appropriately in their attire, though disheveled was one way of describing it best. 

 

“The Lorca line originated in Germany, they traveled this way sometime after the crusades. It is said that Heinrich Lorca was present in Richard I’s battles against Saladin.” 

 

Christopher opens a heavy book, a book that holds the detailed history of some of the oldest, wealthiest and greatest families in English history. And some that have the bloodiest legends.

 

“When Heinrich returned from the crusades he was granted lands and titles. His was one of the very few families in the country to still retain their ancestral home today. He was granted great wealth and reward for his service, despite it being his own country that helped hold Richard I for ransom. He managed to avoid too much public scrutiny for his ambitions did not lay with the crown, but to his own personal household.” 

 

Michael looks upon the ancient drawing of the Lorca ancestor, it is not a very good likeness of who the man could have been. But the old falcon family crest adorns his shield, his hands outstretched to either side of him, bathed in the golden light from the heavenly father. 

 

“Many thought of him as a secret enemy of the state and there were a few attempts on his life. After all, it was insulting that a lowly German mercenary seemed to rise so easily through the ranks. Despite his own personal heritage he married a Scottish nobleman’s daughter much to the shock of the English. He took his wife’s father’s heritage more seriously than his own and named his castle after the old Scottish warriors, the Gallowglass.”

 

Turning the page the drawing depicts a man and woman joining in holy matrimony; he wears his colors of blue and she in too blue and gold. 

 

“They had eight children but only four survived into adulthood. Two sons and two daughters. There were many rumors the youngest daughter, Eleanor, dabbled in witchcraft but it was never proven. The sons followed in their father’s footsteps and joined the army, fighting the French on both land and sea. But it was the eldest child, their daughter Katherine, who truly made a name for herself.”

 

Another turn of the crisp pages shows a lady in red, one hand holding a severed head and the other a bloody knife. 

 

“Mad Maudy, they called her.” 

 

“Maudy?” Bryce questions over her teacup. 

 

“It does not give origin to the name but the father locked her in a tower when rumors began to spread of servants going missing and dying bloody painful deaths by her hand when he was away on campagne. It was commonly known that Lord Lorca was accompanied by his wife, Anne, during his time in service to the crown so he left his castle in charge of his eldest child, Katherine. That sent many rumors flying around the country. It was not until Lord Lorca returned to find the castle nearly deserted and rumors spreading far and wide did he realize his mistake.” 

 

The next page depicts Mad Maudy, identified by her red dress of death, but this time kneeling at the feet of a knight dressed in black armor but with the falcon crest on his shoulder; his sword raising high above her head and she with her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Another girl, dressed in white, stood facing the knight with her hand pointing at him.

 

“The old Lord was furious and the villagers called for Maudy to be burned as a witch. Eleanor pleaded for her sister’s life. A bargain was struck; Katherine would be locked away as her punishment and Eleanor, in exchange for her sister’s life, was sentenced to be her guardian and caregiver and she gave up all chance to leave the family home and make one for herself.”

 

Michael can almost hear the archaic pleadings of a young woman, speaking in Latin or some other foreign tongue; perhaps even ancient germanic. For a moment the shadows dancing on the page make the dead players on the page move, the mad girl on her knees, the sweet sister coming as an angel of light to forgive the sins of her elder sister. 

 

“Where were the brothers in all of this?” Horace asks near Pike.

“The second son, Dieter, died of a fever when he was twenty one, but he had already married and produced three sons. He was buried in the family crypt, which still resides in Gallowglass today.”

 

“And the other?” Michael asks. 

 

Another echo of memories washes over her as Pike skips two pages. The portrait is nearly so uncanny it frightens Michael, for she swears her lover is gazing upon her from the past; imprinted onto the page for eternity. 

 

“Heinrich Zeisolf Lorca. He was the oldest surviving son of Lord Lorca, considered a great warrior he was torn between his father’s loyalty to the crown and his own personal interests in Scotland. He fought against the English with his Scottish grandfather, making himself an enemy of the state, much to the heartbreak of his family, including Katherine, his mad sister.” 

 

Another portrait depicts the two, Heinrich is turning away from the lady in red as she reaches for him, light is coming down from the heavens onto him but does not reach his sister.

 

“Legend says she was madly in love with her brother, attempting to seduce him several times during their youth only to be stopped each time by Eleanor. It is said that the eve before he had a terrible argument with his father, the night before he left for Scotland, Katherine pleaded with him from the confines of her prison, through bars, to free her and take her with him. Heinrich refused and confessed he was in love with a Scottish lady whose name has been lost to recorded time. Some variations say to the lady in question was a nobleman’s daughter as his own mother had been, others to fit the narrative of the common folk say she was a farmer’s daughter. It is unclear where she came from or who she was. But whoever she was the thought of her brother loving someone other than herself seemed to drive Katherine into a frenzy. She cursed Heinrich as he fled from the castle and the guards his own father was setting upon him. 

 

Katherine vowed he and his descendants would never know a moment of peace or quiet so long as the line of Lorca continued. Heinrich married his lady love but their happiness was short lived. She died seven months later while giving birth and the child died with her. Heinrich buried mother and child together in a simple plot with no marker and told no one of where he laid his love to rest, only he knew the location. He took the secret to his grave. Heinrich married again three years later and produced two sons but after suffering the loss of his first and what would have been their child he fell into a deep depression. 

 

Somehow his mother had gotten a pardon from the king and Scotland had been beaten down so much that defeat was inevitable. He returned to England with his wife and two sons and not long after his father died, having never made peace with his eldest son and living with the horror of his mad daughter.”

 

A drawing depicts a beautiful yet nondescript woman holding a child dressed like the son of God, ascending to the heavens as a man in blue robes lays his sword down beneath her feet. Heinrich’s lady love and his child, being taken to heaven, and the man giving up all to God if only to have them back. The sadness of the story nearly overwhelms Michael to tears. 

 

“Sadly, that was is not where the story ends,” Pike continues, meeting Michael’s eyes. “Not long after Heinrich’s return his young son, Thomas, went missing. The whole house searched the grounds and the castle itself, calling out his name and begging him to come home. Heinrich’s second wife, Gertrude, demanded Katherine tell her where her son was for she was convinced the mad woman knew the truth. Katherine only laughed and feigned innocence. It was not until Gertrude ordered guards to bind her sister in law to her bed while they searched her room for evidence. And there, lying under the bed, as if in deep sleep, was the body of little Thomas.

 

Katherine had somehow lured the boy into her room and while he slept in her arms she cut his wrists and held him as he bled out in his sleep before trying to hide the body under her bed. Gertrude nearly killed Katherine with her bare hands, only being stopped by her husband. The grieving mother demanded the woman’s immediate execution and death. But Heinrich needed permission from the king.” 

 

Michael felt the grief the pictures held, a mother holding her child’s lifeless body, his sweet face an image of an angelic cupid. 

 

“Gertrude argued that because the boy was drained of blood and there was not a single trace of blood anywhere that Katherine was a monster who fed off her child. It was all the household needed to mob the woman’s prison and pull her out by any part of her they could grab.”

 

“What did Heinrich do?” Philippa asks, having been nearly as quiet and still as a statue during the whole story.

 

“He did nothing. He never sent his letter to the king requesting an execution, he never pleaded with his wife for his sister’s life, even when Eleanor came to him and told him what was happening, he did nothing. He buried another son, another child he believed in his depression and his own growing madness was murdered by his sister. To the very end Katherine believed her brother would come to her aid and rescue. In his anger and his rage he forced Eleanor to watch as Katherine’s hair was cut off, her feet were broken and her fine red dress was torn from her body and her mother’s ring was taken from her by cutting off her ring finger. Heinrich forced Eleanor to set the pyre on fire herself.”

 

The drawing is hideous, Katherine depicted as a demon burning in the fire as her sister still dressed as a white maiden lights the fire. Michael can hear the horrible screams as the flames engulf Katherine, her sister’s cries of mercy. 

 

The second picture shows the flesh being eaten from Katherine’s bones by the fire, her head hanging loosely at her shoulders as she succumbs to death.

 

“Heinrich believed the curse would die with Katherine, but it did not. The curse, according to legend, has lived on. As has the spirit of Katherine herself. Gertrude apparently wanted the younger sister to also burn for the rumors that in her youth she had practiced witchcraft and that Eleanor was the true mastermind of it all. Heinrich refused, but he did punish Eleanor by locking her away in the same tower that Katherine had been kept in. For years he visited her, it is not exactly recorded as having any truth to it, but apparently another child was born some years later. The story was that it was a chambermaid’s bastard and Heinrich took pity on it and raised the child in his household. There are other more... nefarious stories.”

 

Bryce shivers visibly by the fire, drowning the last of her tea down her throat. Michael wonders if it was tea the woman drank at all. 

 

“What stories?” Michael asks the question that is on the tip of everyone’s tongue but none of them have asked. Pike clears his and closes the book finally with a heavy thud. 

 

“That in his madness and despair he raped his sister throughout the years and that she gave birth to a child who was the product of incest. But no one knows for certain, except that the child bore a striking resemblance to Heinrich. After everything that happened Gertrude and Heinrich lived apart, she returned to Scotland with their last remaining son, Henry. It was not for almost a hundred years until the descendants of Henry returned to Gallowglass and not long after their arrival a great fire broke out destroying most of the original castle. They chose to rebuild not far away.”

 

“What happened to the bastard?” Horace asks. 

 

“Lost to time, just like Heinrich’s first wife. After all that I have seen, all that you good people have told me, I do believe the evil you will face is the spirit of Katherine, Mad Maudy. And it would seem her curse has followed the family to this day as tragedy seems second nature for them now.”

 

The three supernatural people in the room seemed to be in agreement. It would seem, that after all these years, Katherine’s spirit was still not at peace or at rest. That she still harbored her terrible and obsessive love for Heinrich, even if it was through his descendant, Gabriel. 

 

“The ashes.” Philippa says suddenly, so suddenly and with all that has been said and the ambience of the room, everyone jumps; Bryce nearly drops her teacup. “What happened to Katherine’s ashes?” 

 

Pike shrugs.

 

“It is not said.” 

 

“In ancient Egypt being burned to death was considered the most brutal punishment,” Philippa continues. “You body and soul would never enter the afterlife but be forced to wander in turmoil forever. If Heinrich kept his sister’s ashes, for whatever reason he had at the time, that is her portal. That is what she uses to remain in this plain of existence.”

 

“She stopped having a human soul long ago,” Horace says gloomly. “She is entirely the evil spirit now.” 

 

Philippa does not seem so sure.

 

“She tried to hide the child,” she says almost to herself. Michael seems to understand where she is going. 

 

“She felt guilty,” Michael concludes and Philippa nods. “Somewhere inside of her she knew what she had done was wrong.” 

 

“No one is beyond saving.” Philippa says, decidedly so. “We need to release her soul and banish the evil. I think I know of a spell that could work. Katherine never crossed over, she is as trapped as they are by the darkness.”

 

Philippa goes to her husband and whispers something in his ear, Michael minutely looks to Pike who himself cannot seem to look at her. 

 

“We have to prepare,” Horace says. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we leave for Gallowglass.” 

 

It all happened so suddenly, and just as suddenly, the room was empty except for Michael and Lord Pike. He lifts the heavy book and places it back on a shelf. 

 

“I need to ask you something,” she begins slowly. “What... what happened?” 

 

Pike doesn’t look at her, he remains facing away. 

 

“I... I was holding you and you collapsed in my arms. I thought you fainted.” He explains slowly. For some reason she does think that is the whole truth, he has always been able to look at her when he speaks, but now it was as if he were ashamed. 

 

“Christopher,” she says his name slowly and he hangs his head. “What happened?” 

 

He turns and he looks like he’s seen a ghost, she’s never seen him in such a state. 

 

“I am... I do not think I can say.” He answers, ringing his hands and looking like a terrible mess. 

“Did we-”

 

“Yes.” He cuts in, his voice tight and hoarse. “And then suddenly you were... gone. You were with me and suddenly the light left your eyes and I feared I had hurt you.” 

 

Michael sees his struggle, he looks like he’s recalling a memory of brutality. No, it is only shame and regret. She had not wished that for them. 

 

“I felt like a monster,” he goes on and she wishes she could tell him how wrong he was. “I tried to wake you, I feared for you. Bryce examined you when we returned and said she could not wake you either. Imagine what my staff thought of me in such a state.” He says with a laugh, so bitter and sardonic she feels great sympathy for him. 

 

“This is not what I wanted to happen.” She says to him, she hears him sigh then the tell tale sound of him limping towards her, taking her chin in hand he forces her to look at him gently.

 

“Wherever you went... were you safe?” He asks her and she feels another lie bubbling to the surface, so easy it would be to tell him that where she had gone to was a safer place. That despite what had happened between herself and Lord Lorca all was well. But it wasn’t. 

 

She found she could not lie to Lord Pike as easily as she had the others. Shaking her head slowly she answers,

 

“No. But it does not matter. Progress was made.”

“But at what cost, Michael?” He asks her strongly. 

“A heavy one,” she says. “But it was worth it. Every bit of it was worth it.” 

 

“I wish I could make you see this is a bad idea,” he says. “That I fear I will never see you again.”

 

Michael cannot help but smile at his endearment. He would make a better companion that he gives himself credit for. Any woman would be lucky to be his. 

 

“Who knows what the coming days will bring,” She says to him. “But please know that the time I have spent here with you, all you have done for me, I will carry it with me no matter where life takes me. That for the first time in my life you showed me what a good man really is.”

 

Christopher’s heart swells at her words; perhaps they did not love one another but he had been changed by her. In more ways than any person he had ever met could change him. 

 

All he could do was press his forehead to hers, 

 

“Thank you.” He whispers. 

 

Pulling away he goes to the mantle and takes an opened letter in his hand. 

 

“It arrived this morning,” he says. “I was going to tell you on our ride but... well.” He hands it to her and she immediately recognizes Lord Sarek’s hand. 

 

She reads the letter allowed,

 

“Dear Lord Pike, at first I was truly horrified a man of such honor and distinction would dare make such a deplorable scene, insulting decisions I had made for the benefit of another under my care... then I realized how utterly beastly I had behaved.” Michael pauses, was Lord Sarek critiquing himself? 

 

“For many years I feared for my ward, Miss. Burnham. My eldest son holds a despicable obsession for her, for which she is  not to blame. I never meant to cause her harm only to protect her, and sending her to Morgan Black Park seemed the best option at the time. I am now more than ever seeing the error of my ways.”

 

Michael looks to Pike, he has a small smile on his lips as if he too still cannot believe the proud Lord Sarek of Vulcan was admitting defeat.

 

She goes on, her hands trembling around the parchment, 

 

“Miss. Burnham has always been- what?  _ Special _ to me, though I am not her father I tried to be somewhat a figure for her to look up to, someone she could come to in times of fear. I failed on that front as well and now I have more than damaged our relationship, I have killed it in my ignorance. I release Michael to you, she is under your care and you would do a better job that I have in guiding her through, what will always be, a difficult journey for her. Be gentle where I was not, listen, observe where I was blind. And above all, treat her with the respect and dignity I myself had thought I had treated her with but had only used to my advantage. 

 

Sincerely, Lord Sarek of Vulcan.”

 

Michael is so shocked she cannot even drop to her knees in some kind of act of liberation! Lord Sarek released her from his care, his guardianship. She was in more ways than she had ever been before a free woman.

 

And the words he had spoken of her, admitting his own failures was so out of character she briefly wondered if this note could have come from an imposter. 

 

“And,” Pike says when he sees she has finished the note, he takes another more crumbled letter from his vest pocket. “This was sent from Gallowglass after you had been taken away. I do not think he knew where else to send it. It is from Lord Lorca.” 

 

Dropping Lord Sarek’s note she rushes to the old paper and snatches it from Pike’s hand, though her intention had to be rude. She just needed to feel any part of something that had been  _ his _ . 

 

Reading the letter to herself she feels his presence more clearly than ever before. She hears his voice as if he was standing over her shoulder, clutching it to her chest she swears if she were to only lean back she would feel him there, his forehead on her shoulder. Pike leaves her then, allowing her this time to herself for there is nothing else he can do. 

 

Michael crumbles to the floor, her lips pressing into the paper, her tears ruining the words on the page. It had arrived too late, but not late enough. 

 

Come morning she finds herself outside of Fiddlehead Farm, the estate, for the first time since her arrival, dark with a growing storm on the horizon. Lord Pike and Bryce stand at the entrance of the beautiful house to see off the travelers. 

 

“Godspeed, Horace.” Pike says shaking the older man’s hand. “Lady Philippa, may God be with you.” 

 

Philippa bows her head elegantly. Michael comes to him as Philippa and Horace climb inside the carriage. Christopher kisses her hand. 

 

“I hope you find what you are looking for.” He says to her, his voice tight. 

“So do I. Thank you, for everything.” She says, she embraces Bryce and foregoes a long goodbye. As she gets inside the carriage, as the beauty and majesty of heaven on earth fade further away, Pike’s heart yearns to follow her.

 

He fears he will not see her again, truly. He fears the darkness will destroy the lives of three good people and so much more. He turns to face the heavens, the dark looming clouds seem to follow the carriage as if controlled by an unknown force. 

 

“It is out of our hands now.” Bryce says. “I wish she did not go, in her state.” 

 

Pike sighs deeply and he feels Bryce move closer to him. 

 

“She is well enough.” He decides though he selfishly wishes she did remain behind and not risk herself. That she should stop the carriage at any moment and come back to him, to be with him.

 

“No, Christopher,” Bryce says turning to him and he frowns. “Her state is far more delicate than you know.”


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating, my dog chewed through my computer charger. I hope you enjoy!

The carriage moved slowly down the rain covered road. Horace informed the driver that when they reached the village they should stop for rest and a meal. He had passed out at some point during the journey; his hat tipped over his eyes and his hands folded over his stomach.

 

Michael wondered how he could possibly sleep on the eve of what they planned to do. Meanwhile, Philippa read a book with no title and whose pages were a mystery to Michael. 

 

“What spell do you plan to use?” Michael asks, feeling that she must sate her curiosity. 

 

“An old one,” the woman answers. “Something our sisters of light learned and cultivated long ago. It is said it was given life in a house of God by nuns who had been tormented by an evil spirit.”

 

Michael scoffs a bit which delivers a quizzical expression from Philippa. 

 

“You do not believe daughters of God to be capable of such things?”

 

“Are they not meant to oppose such practices?” Michael counters. 

 

Philippa closes the book and leans forward. 

 

“Do not doubt what faith can do against evil, Michael.” She tells her. “Some of the most benevolent witches have been great believers in the almighty.”

 

“Then why is He so invisible when evil is so present?” Michael questions. 

 

“Depends on how you look at things. There is no one or right way to believe in God. Some use his teachings to the literal point while others use his lessons as a starter. I think it comes down more to personal belief.”

 

Michael shakes her head. 

 

“No,” She says. “If God were truly among us he would not let this evil continue.”

 

“Then how would we ever learn?” Philippa poses the question quickly. 

 

“What was I meant to learn from my mother murdering my father? What was I meant to learn from any of  _ this _ ?” She demands, her passions rising but Philippa remains calm. Michael isn’t sure why she feels offended, but she does. As if Philippa thinks so little of the struggles of her life.

 

“Truly, what have you learned?” The woman asks. “You have learned self reliance, you have learned to be strong on your own. You have learned never to take love for granted. And you have learned kindness despite the cruelty of others.”

 

Michael is left mute and she is too proud to admit that perhaps Philippa was right to an extent. 

 

She settles back into her seat as Philippa returns to her book. There is still plenty of time to prepare for whatever it is they shall meet upon her return to Gallowglass. Michael fears briefly that perhaps they will lose time as she had, that somehow the queerness of the house will entrap them and they will never know how long they will be inside.

 

The house did that, it lived and breathed with the curse that encompassed it. 

 

Blinking a few times she feels tiredness begin to ease its way into her limbs. She feels her soul trying to reach out to Gabriel, perhaps he is reaching out to her too. Two hands searching in the dark...

 

When she opens her eyes again she can smell water, salty and heavy. She tastes it in her mouth and when she blinks again she’s looking upon a vast lake. She can see the other side, boats moving here and there, children playing at the shore below, she’s looking out over a cliff. 

 

Turning she sees Gabriel sitting in the high grass, relaxed and with a squinted expression for the sun is high and warm.

 

There is a chill that comes with the warmth of the sun, but it is strangely comforting. She goes to him, sitting beside him. 

 

“Where are we?” She asks him, he leans up over the grass, turns his head and shields his eyes from the sun. 

 

“Home, real home.” He answers and she follows his gaze to a great ancient castle with added additions that have been added over time. “Scotland, Camden House.” 

 

“This is where your ancestors made their home,” she says turning to look back at him. 

“I wasn’t born at Gallowglass,” he tells her. “I was born here. But... eventually father decided we should return. I will never know why he decided to go back.” He pulls some grass from the ground, pulling it apart.

 

Michael cups his face in her hand, turning him to face her. 

 

“I would like to take you here one day,” he says slowly, bringing her closer to him.

“We will.” She promises, believing her words to be truer than anything else. He sighs.

 

“We cannot say such things.” He tells her and she shakes her head.

“Why? Why can we not defeat this evil?” 

 

Because he has no faith, she realizes. Perhaps there is more to Philippa’s words thans he initially wanted to believe. She needs to make Gabriel see, to feel and to think that there is hope. That there can be faith and light even in the most hopeless of times. That darkness could not last forever. 

 

The chill turns to a stirring window, the children below play no more for she cannot hear their voices. But the cry of infant comes again and the sun begins to be swallowed by a dark cloud, the same that always come with the arrival of the spirit. 

 

Holding him tightly to her, his face resting in the hollow space of her neck and shoulder, she lifts her eyes to see a queer sort of wake in the realm that surrounds them. A... a doorway. perhaps? 

 

Whatever it was, it was pulsating with great energy; even the soil and grass that surrounded it seemed to darken and turn rotten with it’s very presence. And standing on the other side, surrounded by the ruins of Old Gallowglass and snow, was... Detmer? 

 

The girl wears a twisted grin on her face... demented, mad! She holds Gabriel tighter but feels him beginning to slip away. The girl’s eyes are dead, not even black, just... vacant of life and emotion except one Michael could only describe as viciousness. 

 

She feels Gabriel being always tugged, hard, away from her but she hangs on. Willing herself to be stronger than whatever evil was trying to force its way through. 

 

Michael has no words for what she is seeing; was it real? Was the real world, tainted by the evil that threatened, finally finding a way through to her? Had their special realm finally be invaded, in near bodily form, by the spirit? 

 

Detmer approaches the celestial gate only to be thrown back and Michael gasps and she feels her grip on Gabriel grow stronger. He leans back, the cry of a child still echoing in their ears. She sees shadows moving in her peripheral vision but she cannot bring herself to look. 

 

Glancing down she feels his hand over her stomach, his eyes on her hers. 

 

“She knows.” He whispers, his voice distorted and detached, as if his words cannot slow down for his lips to move in tandem with them. The castle begins disappearing, stone by stone, the water has all but dried up but still their enemy has not entered. 

 

Something else, something besides Michael, was fighting back. Finally looking to see what was happening beyond Gabriel and herself, she sees the bright lights of two beings, one in pain the other fearful but brave. 

 

“I’m coming, my love.” She whispers against his cheek before he completely disappears into nothing more than a blank space where he once sat. She lets herself sink back into the seat of the carriage, opening her eyes she sees Horace is tending to Philippa, her hand bloodied as if bitten by an animal. 

 

“What happened to her?” She asks, quickly leaning forward to see if there was anything she could do. 

 

“The evil is stronger than I realized,” Horace says, not looking at Michael. Philippa’s brow is sweaty, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

 

Michael wants to tell them it’s not too late to turn back- but that’s not true. Maybe it wasn’t too late for them, but for Michael... she refused to turn back now. 

 

Once Philippa’s hand was wrapped in a bandage Michael noted how the tips of her fingers were nearly blue. The woman cradles the appendage close to her chest.

 

“This is an ancient evil,” Philippa says, her voice shaking. Horace lights a cigarette for her. “I knew it was strong... but I- I could never have imaged...”

 

“Shh, darling.” Horace says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder lovingly. 

 

“The girl, the maid,” Philippa says, looking at Michael. “She is an agent of evil.”

 

Michael shakes her head, Detmer? Of all people! There was nothing to gain. At least when the spirit inhabited Landry there was something to gain, more power, influence over the staff and more so his lordship. But Detmer offered nothing. 

 

“That’s ludicrous!” Michael exclaims. 

“It’s truth!” Philippa raises her voice and had she been in a position to stand Michael believes she would have. “I know what I saw. What  _ we _ saw.” She says, glancing at her lover.

“She was there, Michael.” Horace says, affirming more strongly what Philippa had seen. 

 

“What could she gain from Detmer?” Michael asks.

“It does not matter. I fear the girl is to be disposed of now that another form of the spirit has been revealed.” 

 

Michael sinks slowly back into her seat. 

 

Detmer... disposed of... agents of evil. The poor girl. Who had Michael known at Gallowglass? Was it the spirit the whole time... it couldn’t have been. There were many times Landry and Detmer shared the same space. The spirit couldn’t be powerful enough to inhabit two bodies at once? 

 

But looking back, Detmer was always quietest and meek around Landry. Perhaps she had never known what was happening to her. And even sadder still, perhaps Michael had never even known the real Detmer. Oh, and Owosekun. What if she too was just another pawn in this hideous game; and Stamets and Culbar- poor Detmer. 

 

Michael notices her hand resting over her belly, almost protectively and she realizes it ever since her return from wherever it was she had been with Gabriel. And Philippa notices too.

 

_ She knows... _

 

Michael wonders if the she he had been referring to was the spirit of his dead ancestor, Mad Maudy, at all. That moment back at Fiddlehead when Michael had awoken in her bed, Philippa’s hand had been where Gabriel’s had rested. 

 

“What do you know that you are not telling me.” Michael demands, though she’s slowly beginning to fear the answer... another thing she kept locked in that attic of hers, locked away from the front of her mind. Kept dirty and dusted like a horrible family secret, bolted behind doors and thrown away. 

 

“You have been trying to tell yourself that.” 

“It is not-”

 

“Possible?” Philippa cuts in, then laughs dryly. “Bryce first told me what she believed to be true,” Philippa continues. “She saw you in a vulnerable state, performed her own examination on you when you were first placed under her care. At first she thought it was nothing, that perhaps your lack of a menstrual cycle was because of the stress you had endured. Then she noticed your appetite, things that made you sick.”

 

Michael shakes her head and sputters around the words she tries to form,

 

“I... I... this is ridiculous.” 

“No, Michael. You are with child.” 

 

The words sink into her skin, her soul. Everything Gabriel had been trying to warn her against. It wasn’t just her own safety he feared for. Somehow, he  _ knew _ . He knew before she did and he was trying to tell her. 

 

That damn room, that damn place in her mind where she put things to hide from herself. A wave of uncertainty passes over her. Turn back... protect your baby. A mother’s instinct should be to protect her unborn child. Instead, she was playing the fool and running head first into the most terrible and threatening kind of danger. 

 

But Michael was tired of running and tired of people telling her how to live her life. 

 

“Michael,” Philippa says, taking her hand and the girl is too shocked to resist such an affectionate touch. “I believe this is more than good news.”

 

Michael frowns and licks her lips. 

 

“How?” She asks her, though inside, privately to herself, she imagines Gabriel holding their baby. Holding their child as he never held Tilly because she wasn’t his. That they’re happy in Scotland together, away from everyone and living in their own intimate paradise. 

 

“Because,” Philippa says, her eyes finally softening to that motherly hue that had comforted Michael so much. “I think this may be the answer we seek to truly defeat this evil.” 


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How little they all knew Kayla Detmer.

Stamets fumbled with the keys, had he been in his right mind perhaps he wouldn’t have been so careless. But alas, none of them had been in their right mind for some time. He checks his wound as he moves swiftly down the halls, it is a scratch. Not even remotely comparable to ones he had received before.

 

His lordship has not spoken a word since the removal of Miss. Burnham. It had been a depressing and unfortunate sight to see, but what could  _ he _ have done? He was powerless, as was all the rest... even his lordship. 

 

Nearly three months, then a letter, out of the blue for Gallowglass rarely received post, from Lord Pike. He had not read it, for it was not his place. But he feared the contents of such a note, why did Lord Pike suddenly wish to reach out to Lorca? 

 

When Stamets had delivered the letter his lordship simply grunted and dismissed his servant. But he waited, outside the door to see if his fears were rooted at all in truth. 

 

Sadly, they were. 

 

Stamets was sure the only piece of furniture not destroyed that day- or night it was difficult to tell sometimes- was the grand piano. The spirit would not allow that.

 

The destruction lasted for hours until nearly everything in the room had been converted to dust.

 

Stamets rests against a bust of a dead Lorca ancestor.

 

“Did you have it this hard?” He grumbles. Entering the kitchen Detmer takes immediate notice of him, ushering him into a chair and ordering him to remove his now blood soaked coat. 

 

Lifting his shirt the girl begins applying an ointment, her hands quickly covered in plasma.

 

“What was it this time?” She asks him worriedly, but this was all second nature to her now. 

 

“First I suggest he eat, then he decided to throw the remains of a chair at me,” he answers thinly. “God forbid I try to clean up the mess he’s made.”

 

Detmer grasps his chin between her bony fingers,

 

“You have done more than clean up his mess,” She tells him strongly, sounding like a bossy little sister. “You have sacrificed and been oh so brave, Mr. Stamets.”

 

He takes her hand, now covered in his blood. But blood was like water to them now, it was a fleeting thing that they had all grown more than accustomed to.

 

“Thank you, Kayla.” He says, and he means it too. 

 

Owosekun enters and giggles at the sight of his undress. 

 

He rolls his eyes, releasing Detmer’s hand and fixing his attire as best he is able now that she has, once more, played nurse to him.

 

“Fear not dear girl,” he says with a faux sense of gallantry. “Detmer’s virtue is safe from me.”

 

Detmer rinses her hands leisurely as if in no rush and Owosekun places a basket of fresh laundry on the table beside a vase of flowers, she has seemed to make it her mission since Michael’s removal to continue on little traditions the former governess had installed. One of which was making sure Mister Saru’s efforts did not go to waste by placing vases of flowers in every room. 

 

“You know she’s not coming back,” Detmer says knowingly to her friend who only shrugs.

 

Stamets wishes more than anything that Michael Burnham was still here; yes, there were other selfish wishes he also prioritized, but the woman had brought light into the house again. He was foolish to think it could have helped them remove the shadow that haunted them all daily. He had hated her from the first moment he saw her. Not because of any social reason or for the color of her skin, the man he loved more than anything shared that commanility with her. He was not so prejudiced to despise someone based solely on race. 

 

No, Stamets had disliked her for her naivety, for her spirit, for the light she so easily possessed that he no longer had. For her youth, for how easily things seemed to come to her. And then, before he knew it, he found himself yearning to be closer to her. To share in the good nature she had, he had believed he had found a like minded friend in her.

 

And before long he found himself worrying for her safety and her health. And when they had taken her away it had been Stamets who pleaded with his lordship to stop what was happening. He had gritted his teeth and stood by and watched and listened as Lord Sarek’s son berated and insulted Burnham at that bastard of a dinner. It had disgusted him and he had never wanted to drive a knife into someone’s neck more ardently before. 

 

When Michael was finally dragged away, treated like some mad lunatic, he had broken down in Culbar’s arms. They were not always afforded time alone together, technically they didn’t even live together. But the few moments he was able to slip away and be with a man he considered only to himself to be his husband, did he finally release all of the sadness that had washed over him at the terrible sight of seeing Michael treated so wrongly. 

 

Even Owosekun had taken audience with his lordship for she would make her voice heard to him. Stamets even encouraged it. After what Owosekun witnessed, what she had been asked and coerced to do for Lady Sarek, she had been utterly appalled. Stamets remembers hearing the girl’s shakey words to his lordship, who listened, but could do nothing.

 

_ “Ya know wut they gone do to the girl,”  _ Owosekun had said.  _ “They drug her, tie her down, they treat her like she’s crazy but she ain’t crazy, sir!”  _

 

It had not fallen on deaf ears, only powerless hands. 

 

And now, they were all back to square one. 

 

His master had been in a foul mood since the departure of Miss. Burnham but lately the beast within him seemed far more likely to attack without warning.

 

So Stamets took it upon himself to lock his master more securely within his chambers with the aid of Hugh. He suggested to his lover the  _ other  _ option only once more and Hugh would not hear of it. 

 

When Hugh divulged that he had written in haste to Lord Pike requesting his help in the matter Stamets had nearly laughed.

 

_ “You expect an esteemed man such as he to believe you?”  _ He had asked bitterly. 

 

In truth tensions amongst everyone were particularly high. Even young Miss. Tilly was feeling the effects, perhaps most of all, of Michael’s absence. She had taken to throwing mad fits of rage where she could not be calmed.

 

Despite her awkwardness when she was young she had never been an angry child. All the girl seemed want was Michael back. 

 

Stamets wished he could tell the girl he wished the same thing too.

 

Stamets was just about to leave the kitchen when the whole house seemed to groan, pots and plates rattled until they fell to the floor. 

 

It felt as if the house itself was attempting to free itself from the foundation. He steadies himself on the table as the girls search for purchase elsewhere. 

 

What in the name of God was happening now?

 

The music seemed to increase until there was no melody just horrible sounds emanating throughout the whole place. Detmer presses her hands to her ears and nearly toppled over had Owosekun not steadied her.

 

Eventually the shaking stops and they breathe a sigh of relief. 

 

“I must see to Miss. Tilly,” He says, swallowing back his fear and ignoring the pain from his wound. 

 

“You go, Mr. Stamets,” Detmer says taking deep breaths. “We shall see to what’s broken.”

 

With a nod he leaves them in search of the young Miss in question. He can only imagine the tantrum she’s to throw now. 

 

_ God, please, send us help.  _

 

Watching Stamets leave Detmer glances to Owosekun,

 

“I’ll look outside, make sure none of the windows cracked again.” 

 

Her friend nods, walking to the back door Detmer toes off her simple house shoes in favor of an old pair of boots she found long ago. Yes, they were for a man... but it mattered not to Detmer. 

 

Stepping into the snow covered land to check for broken windows was not exactly why the girl had come out. The house was growing more and more uncontrollable. 

 

To be sure, she had not anticipated how angry the spirits that haunted the estate would eventually grow. 

 

And it was growing out of her own limited power. 

 

Yes, she used many mortal vessels over the years, sometimes jumping from one to another, but what she had not realized was that the souls of those who had died here would try to fight back. 

 

Of course Stamets and the others were ignorant of this little piece of information. 

 

To them she was simply Detmer... poor, meek, headstrong little Kayla Detmer. The girl no one assumes anything of except loyalty. 

 

But puppet masters came in all shapes and sizes. Landry had been easy to control for ambition and envy were emotions that could be manipulated. 

 

Detmer had been a virtually blank slate of innocence. And though it had been a tempting thought to ruin the girl in both body and mind she kept her, neatly, untouched. 

 

The girl had been dim witted, cowed, sheltered and practically uneducated. Her mind was a gooey bowl of mush when she had been taken over and no one had been the wiser.

 

Through Detmer she could move and listen more closely. It was how the spirit found out about Landry’s ability as a decent but out of her depth witch. It had not been Landry the spirit had been possessing the night of her death, but Detmer. 

 

Thinking back on it, Landry had been a perfect waste. And now she was limited to Detmer; for she would not sully herself by inhabiting a man, not unless it was truly called for.

 

_ “I know what you are!”  _ Landry had said to her that night in a moment of rare lucid behavior, for she had begun trying to fight the possession that had taken hold of her since Miss. Burnham’s arrival.

 

_ “You cannot take the child! I won’t let you- I won’t be used this way anymore!”  _ Landry had said defiantly. What a sorry excuse for strength...

 

The argument threatened to wake the whole house and Detmer knew she would’ve been discovered- so she did the only practical thing and called upon her loyal dog to finish Landry off. 

 

_ “Kill her and bring me the child.”  _ Detmer had ordered when he appeared in his beautiful and true form. 

 

What Detmer hadn’t counted on was that he too would resist. Landry spoke some terrible words that burned them both, a language as dead as her own native tongue. 

 

_ “Bring me the child!”  _ Detmer had ordered him again but he hesitated and that’s when Detmer knew something wasn’t right... she did the only practical thing she could at the time. 

 

She ran, hid Detmer then transported herself into Landry. But it was too late. By the time she felt herself becoming one with the other woman the beast had already made up its mind.

 

Contrary to what some might think, she felt everything during Landry’s death. It was painful at first, unlike the other deaths she had felt. Lady Lorca’s exit from this realm had been relatively painless. 

 

Landry’s was prolonged and hideous. Yet afterwards, when she floated above the corpse unseen did she take pleasure in the sight beneath her and more so when she saw the torment of Landry’s own soul growing trapped within the walls of the house. 

 

Yes, her beloved had fought her, and yes it was a setback indeed. But the sight of him so deliciously covered in blood, so manic and terrifying made her proud. And made her crave him even more.

 

He was truly a gory thing to behold; the power within him- the power  _ she  _ gave him- and how he used it made her yearn even more for the day when they would be together, again. 

 

_ “This is only a minor inconvenience,”  _ she had whispered to him.  _ “There is always another. You will see, I shall make you want to listen.” _

 

It was all such a messy and at times bloody business. But she needed blood and death, she needed movement, she needed  _ entertainment _ . 

 

And these mortals offered so much joy to her. How easily breakable they were. How they seemed to be her little dolls to play with. It was all very amusing how they thought they could prolong the inevitable.

 

With the removal of Miss. Burnham and the child ready like a sweet little lamb and the full moon only two days away Detmer could hardly contain her excitement. 

 

_ Soon, I shall be made whole again... _

 

Burnham and her pathetic little band of misfits could not stop her now. And if they tried, she would make them see her true power. Not even the dead of Gallowglass, in all their moaning and groaning, were strong enough to stop her. 

 

Not even a bastard of two realms could give Michael enough light to defeat all she had done. And if Tilly was somehow damaged during the ritual... Michael’s happy little  _ accident _ would come in handy. 

 

Either way, she would finally be rid of this sorrowful place. She and Gabriel could roam elsewhere, together. He was so stubborn sometimes, she used to find it amusing in a human sort of way. 

 

Now it simply irritated her that he so willingly behaved so irrationally. All that pining and all that... sickening romantic trite. She would make him see that Burnham had been a distraction, she was more comfortable making such allowances now than she was before. 

 

Time had passed, she wasn’t the same woman she used to be. The thing she had become, what she had evolved into, was so much more than woman. 

 

_ Might as well be a god,  _ she thought vainly, but she had always thought highly of herself.

 

Feigning the look of a maid checking the windows of the great house she walked towards the old castle grounds that lay abandoned and forgotten, by all except she and Gabriel. 

 

The old family home. 

 

They could have been happy here but... well, there were certain complications. The old place simply had to go, and it did. 

 

There amongst the rubble she sensed the presence of those lost in the fire, and other souls tormented by such wicked flames. She pushed back against them, striking fear into their damned souls. They were doomed to remain here for eternity so long as she willed it to be so.

 

But shouldn’t family always stay together? 

 

She was skipping merrily in her clunky male boots when something suddenly knocked her off balance and her frail mortal vessel went down onto the old roughened stone path; her knees scraped horribly and she found she needed a moment to find her balance standing again. 

 

Her breath came out quickly, inhaling cold air that burned her lungs. 

 

_ That fucking little whore!  _

 

“You’re coming,” She says aloud. She knew the girl was determined, having found other witches of light, but... no, she really was coming, for true. As sure as air filled her mortal lungs. “You fool!” 

 

She could feel her getting closer. 

 

That’s when the possessed eyes of Kayla Detmer fell on the opening in time, in space... this reality colliding with the one Gabriel thought he keep her from. They shared everything, how dare he continue to shut her out! Well, no more. The opening was clear as day, any being could see if they only opened their eye to it. 

 

She saw  _ them _ together, by a cliff, as if a doorway had been opened. Raising her chin high she marched straight towards it only to be thrown back when she tried to move through it.

 

Leaning up on her elbows she tosses her red hair out of her face, vexed beyond belief that something so primitive should keep her out. Standing before her, with their hands folded as if in prayer stood the oriental witch. 

 

“You think you can keep her safe,” Detmer says as she rises once more. “That your little parlor tricks scare me?”

 

The woman’s eyes meet hers,

 

“Yes.”

 

A man appears beside the woman, her consort, his hands outstretched towards Detmer.

 

She laughs at them, oh the absolute arrogance of them. Her own  _ sister  _ had been no match for her, they thought they could do better?

 

“Oh goodness! A husband wife duo. I’m shaking!” She dusts off her skirts and attempts to walk past them through the portal only to be stopped again by unseen hands. They’re not touching her physically, simply willing her not to enter. 

 

For a moment Detmer feels...  _ fear _ . She feels panic. What would the dead think of this? Surely they were watching! 

 

“You cannot enter.” The man says, his voice like a thousand spikes running her through, she clenches her fists. 

 

“Foolish man!” Detmer shouts, spit dripping from her bottom lip. She’s been drowned before, in another body, another life... it feels almost similar to being spiked alive while under water. 

 

“Keep away you evil harlot!” He shouts, his hands come together as one and a clap so loud and deafening nearly knocks her off balance.

 

“You’re not the only one with power.” She says, her eyes darkening to black orbs, she rises from the ground to hover above them her heavy men’s boots falling to the earth below. 

 

“Maybe I can’t get through the portal,” She says, her voice alternating from Detmer’s to a queer androgynous tone. “But I can still hurt you.”

 

She opens her mouth and closes it roughly, as if to mimic biting something. Not even a second’s breath later the witch of light falls to the man’s feet holding her wrist. 

 

“Close it!” The woman cries, her pain fueling Detmer’s rage. 

 

The man waves his hands once more and the portal begins shrinking. Detmer slowly lowers herself back to the ground, laughing maliciously as she does,

 

“Just wait until you’re here,” She warns as the man helps his woman to her feet, they’re growing smaller and fainter as the image begins collapsing on itself. “Then I’ll bathe in your blood.”

 

Once they’re entirely gone she realizes how careless she had been. They’ve seen this face... damn it. Only one thing left to do, such a pity. 

 

_ What a waste,  _ she thinks, tearing her apron from her skirt and tying it around her neck. She finds a good sturdy branch, high off the ground. 

 

_ Don’t think I ever experienced a hanging _ , she thinks absentmindedly. She glances down at the ground below, so high up. She sighs deeply. Hopefully her neck will snap instantly. 

 

She doesn’t even feel the real Detmer try to stop her. The girl was too thick in the head and simple to know what was happening to her. 

 

_ That’s it, little one, keep on dreaming... _ she lulls the girl easily.  _ It’s really too bad she won’t feel anything. _

 

She imagines Stamets face briefly for a moment, how it will look when he finds her body... and she smiles. 

 

Lifting one foot she steps off the limb of the tree. 

 

Her hope was realized, her neck snapped instantly. The birds leapt from the trees at the sudden commotion crying out and squawking loudly. 

 

And swinging limply from the thick limb of the trees was the sad little corpse of Kayla Detmer. She wasn’t discovered until the following day, when Owosekun begged Mr. Stamets and Culbar to look for her when she couldn’t be found anywhere in the house. There was no family to inform, there was no one but the staff to mourn her. The ground was too stiff to her bury her, so she was put to rest in the carriage house where Landry’s own body had once been kept.

 

There was no funeral for the girl they had all come to know and love, little did they realize how much of her wasn’t even truly Detmer. She had endured the silence of the black maid, pretending to be encouraging and oh so very kind and tolerant. She had mended and sewn Stamets, that sodomite, countless times offering gentleness and a shoulder to cry on. 

 

They mourned for no one. They mourned for a shell, a precious lie. And watching all was the spirit herself, cackling and taking great joy in the aftermath of their sorrow. It truly was the entertainment she had been longing for.

 

But the house... the way it began to shift itself. The souls of the dead grew weary and restless. And more so, the dark man whose bargain had been forged on these grounds long ago, was waiting to be paid back. 

 

It was only a matter of time though before the Burnham whore returned. And then, the true show would begin. 


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truths are revealed and friends not all what they seem

The storm grew in intensity and soon the rain had transformed itself into snow, the road much harder and difficult to navigate; it was not like the pristine virgin snow that had covered the lawn of grounds of Vulcan during the holiday seasons of her youth. No, there was no beauty to this white hell that now seemed to surround them entirely. 

 

The driver was thankful for respite when there was light coming from the last inn, he stabled Smoke and her companion Dusty while Horace requested lodgings. Inside the carriage Michael and Philippa shivered in the cold. 

 

“Fascinating,” Philippa says through clattering teeth. 

“Fascinating?” Michael questions, Philippa nods; lifting a hand as if to actually  _ feel _ the air.

 

“It was only summer miles ago,” the woman continues, opening the door to the carriage. “Yet here... hell has frozen over.” 

 

Inside the inn they are looked upon with scowls and paranoid eyes. Michael realized she had never spoken to any of the villagers, she had never ventured into town before. She had never seen any of them... none, except Mrs. Myers, Sylvia’s nanny who lived in the village with her husband. 

 

“They’ll put us up,” Horace explains. “So long as we stay apart.” 

 

Philippa nods, this seems a common occurrence for them, one she is not surprised by. The villagers either do not believe he is married to a woman of such different nationality or he has simply not told them. 

 

“One night,” Philippa decides. “I can feel her beginning to rise.” 

“The spirit?” Michael whispers to her friend. 

“The moon.”

 

X

 

Miles away, Gallowglass continues to shake and the books Sylvia loved so much clatter to the floor. She tries picking them up, putting them back where they belong but it is no use. The voices are louder than they have ever been before. The house itself screams, aching to be heard. It is violent and it is terrible. She feels her very soul is in torment...

 

“Michael... please come back.” She whispers, holding her doll against her chest, her bedroom door firmly locked. She braces herself against the wall, surrounded by her fallen books as the shadow passes by once more, on patrol. It is a common thing, she finds. She has realized it’s routines. Whatever it is, it breathes heavily, and it is not one of her favorite dogs. 

 

No, the hounds of Gallowglass are tended to by Culbar and she has not seen them in ages. Sometimes the thing will stand for hours, making sure she cannot leave, until something takes it away. It is a demon, she decides. One of many who haunt these places. The wind howls harshly against and through the house- or was it the beast outside her room?- cutting the girl to her bones. She has never felt so cold even with the heat of the fire. 

 

“Stop.” She begs the nothingness around her, pressing her hands to her ears, her doll falling to the floor to break in porcelain shards. “Stop!” She shouts, the house groaning with each breath she takes. Wailing, cries of pain and noises that sound like blood splashing against stone invade her eardrums. 

 

“Go away!” She tells them but they will not listen. 

 

The closet, it is safe in there. She runs to it, forgetting her broken doll and closing the door firmly behind her. She cannot see the pacing shadow of the monster who keeps her locked inside. She can only see darkness. She was a child of darkness though, she was born into it, she had lived in it. She was not afraid of the dark... she was only afraid of what she not see in the dark. 

 

Did ghosts make shapes in the swirling queerness of night? She’s breathing so rapidly she does not realize she’s growing dizzy until she collapses. In her mind’s eye, she sees the wicked thing that torments her. It wears her mother’s face but it is not her mother. She sees  _ through _ the rotting mask. The nightmare takes hold and Sylvia can no longer fight back. She lies as prone on her closet floor as her doll does in the next room.

 

X

 

The room is quaint with two beds but Michael finds she cannot bring herself to change for bed and neither can Philippa.

 

“Will he be alright on his own?” She asks her, referring to Horace. The woman nods, her eyes leaving her old book for a moment.

 

“I have faith in him.” She tells her simply. 

“You love him very much.” Michael says and the woman smiles, almost bashfully. 

“Through stormy and clear skies.” 

 

“I envy your freedom.” Michael says softly, the woman glances over her spectacles. 

 

“Do not think we have not faced our own adversity, Michael,” Philippa says gently. “We have endured a great deal. But I do believe we still have many years ahead of us.”

 

Michael stands and goes to the window, she shuts the curtains as if to try and keep the cold out but it does no use, another fruitless endeavor. Whatever hell had been spawned in Gallowglass it had finally reached these good people. 

 

Were they good people? Michael couldn’t be sure, for she did not know them. 

 

It was then Michael realized the simple antique clock on the mantle told no time. It was silent. Stopped at a quarter past noon or was it midnight? 

 

Philippa notices this, 

 

“In places taken over by evil time has no relevance,” she explains. “Evil has no use for such a man made tool. It was how you had no idea how long you were there.”

 

The elementary answer to how Michael had been unaware of how much time had passed at Gallowglass solidified her own theory. But there were other more pressing questions she needed answers to. 

 

“Why do you think this child will help us?” She asks, finally giving audience to the truth of her...  _ condition _ . Her hand taking it’s now routine place over her stomach; where she felt like live within her so clearly it was almost shocking how calm she was during this whole ordeal. 

 

_ We are to be mother...  _ she thinks strangely, still not quite coming to terms with it, 

 

Closing the book and setting it aside Philippa lights a cigarette. 

 

“It is an abomination,” She says, but holds her hand out in a peaceful gesture when Michael visibly takes offense, “Do not misunderstand me.” The woman warns. “I do not mean the word in bad faith.”

 

Inhaling smoothly from her cigarette she removes her spectacles, resting her eyes. 

 

“By all accounts beasts created from evil such as your Lord Lorca should not be able to conceive. They should be sterile creatures, damned not to have the power to create life only take it. You know what sterilization means, do you not?”

 

Sadly, Michael did. She had heard terrible stories from maids like herself growing up being taken to doctors and having disgusting and inhumane procedures performed on them unwillingly. 

 

Whether the women desired children or not the choice was made behind closed doors to remove any unwanted mouths to feed, for their own  _ “well being” _ , of course. 

 

“So you can understand why your child is special, Michael. During your training I feared the influence of such a conception would hinder your abilities, instead it seemed to only increase their power. I believe this child to be our saving grace. To give you the strength you need most.”

 

“But what if something happens?” Michael asks, rising from her small bed. “What can an unborn child do?”

 

What, indeed! It was barely anything at all... hardly a being worthy of such a responsibility. A burden it never asked for. 

 

“You would be surprised. Take what I have said to heart. Your child should not even exist, it should not have happened. Lord Lorca laid with Landry countless times and not a single child was conceived from it; even before her, his own wife never bore him a living child. But  _ you _ ,” Philippa pauses, rises and comes towards the girl. “You shifted everything.” 

 

It was never meant to happen, the child should not even exist within her and yet here it was. Since realizing the truth of her pregnancy Michael found that she could almost  _ hear _ the growth within her; another voice from the Sight was slowly taking form within her. 

 

Another voice that seemed to be taking on a life of its own; wasn’t it? 

 

Michael knew her instinct as an expecting mother should not be the reckless path she had chosen, but it didn’t feel entirely wrong. In fact the new voice within her seemed to be pushing her onward as if encouraging her not to turn back. 

 

But more so she wondered of a father’s instinct too. Was that why he had not harmed her in her dream when she had first seen him in his beastly attire? He had sniffed her belly and from there his attitude towards her had altered considerably.

 

Was that when he knew? Was that the moment it all came to him so clearly? The moment he knew she carried his child...

 

Michael knew from what Gabriel had told her that he had hoped for a child as strongly as Lady Lorca, and she sensed that he felt very much like a failure as a man he had not produced one.

 

Perhaps both parties had felt the same, but men and women carried failure differently. For women it seemed the inability to bare children came from something physically, that they lacked the correct internal parts for such a thing. That the societal pressure of being less of a woman, for not conceiving was not something that happened to well bred aristocratic young ladies.

 

But men, to Michael it appeared, cared more for how it made them appear as a man. That they lacked something else, something that showed they were ill equipped. That they were not strong enough or virile enough. 

 

However these were only the curious theories of one person, but Michael wondered if others ever thought the same. Or maybe it was all rubbish. Maybe it was something more primal that drove men and women to such depressions. Maybe it wasn’t society or the pressures of starting a family, maybe it was something deeper no one would truly ever understand about humans. 

 

“You think he will help us because I carry his child,” Michael says and a strange bitterness takes hold of her. “And not because he loves me.”

 

Philippa takes her book in hand once more, sitting beside Michael she shows her the pages; written in Latin and translated in certain parts; hand written notes by a person long dead. 

 

“This was the personal diary of Sister Agatha,” Philippa explains. “She and her sisters were tormented by an ancient demon who had made their abbey it’s home. Sometime over the years Agatha and her sisters took an unorthodox approach to exiling the creature. They sought out a man of considerable experience exercising such beings, a former priest who had been excommunicated from the church.” 

 

Michael listens carefully, though the woman’s words do little to ease Michael’s fears. 

 

“The man and Agatha fell deeply in love and she decided to be with him rather than remain a wife of God. The Sister fell pregnant and through this incantation and because of her pregnancy the spirit was vanquished. I believe the combination will help us here as well.”

 

As Michael looks closer at the old text Philippa closes it suddenly, though Michael wonders why if it were to be something she must use, something they must share for they had already shared so much with one another. Before Philippa closed the book however Michael notices only the faintest scribblings that she could read.

 

The writing had been made carefully and from what she could detailed as well. 

 

The phrase had been underlined, hence why it caught her eye,

 

_ Life for a life... _

 

What an odd thing to write, had it not been entirely important the author would not have written it or made it so singular to the spell. 

 

_ Life for a life...  _

 

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when someone knocked at their door. Philippa slipped a knife from her cuff and approached the door carefully, 

 

“Yes?”

“It is Horace.”

 

Returning the knife to her sleeve Philippa opens the door. Horace’s pants are damp and his hands shaking from the cold. 

 

“The driver has left,” he explains, stepping into their room and warming his hands by the fire. “He heard some stories the locals were telling about the house. Apparently a young maid was found, hung by a tree yesterday. He’ll go no further.”

 

Michael buries her face in her hands.

 

_ Detmer... it was true.  _

 

The spirit had disposed of Detmer just as Philippa had said it would. Another innocent life taken by such a malicious being. She feels Horace close to her, his cold hands taking her own from her shielded face.

 

“I am sorry, Michael,” he says warmly. “There is more.”

“Tell me.” She says, grasping his lapels. 

“I asked the owner of this establishment, I asked him what else he could tell me about the house. For a bit of coin he told me that the house is alive, that it shudders and wails night and day. That there is no light from the house, only the screams of the dead.”

 

Michael turns her face away, she can hear them now. The ancient, hallowed dead of Gallowglass. Generations of lost souls in agony and torment, afraid... but willing. Not all those who died in that fateful house were maleficent spirits. 

 

“The full moon approaches,” Philippa says, looking out the window, peeking through the closed curtains. “The spirit needs it for the ritual. She will slaughter that girl like a helpless lamb.”

 

“Do not speak such a thing!” Michael shouts, rising and being held back only by the will of Horace. “She is a child, not some... some little nothing of this story. She is everything!” 

 

Philippa’s bottom lip trembles, but with an emotion that somewhat surprises Michael. 

 

Rage...

 

“You think so little of me that I do not see what is at stake.” Philippa says darkly, the flames held behind a grated fireplace seem to rise higher and Horace stands in front of Michael, his arms extended to shield her. 

 

“Pippa,” he says warningly yet her advance is slow, like a tiger, she does not hear him.

 

“You think I have not seen darkness like this before?” She gestures with her injured hand, the one wrapped in white cloth slightly stained by old dark blood. “It was evil like this that brought dishonor and ruin to my family, it forced me onto the streets and exiled me from my father’s house. I had a family, once too, Michael. And I brought them nothing but despair with what I am capable of and you have no idea what  _ I _ am capable of.”

 

Philippa lifts her uninjured hand, makes a triangle shape with her index finger and from it a swirl of elements almost akin to smoke appear, hovering. 

 

“If you were to inhale this substance,” she goes on, “your lungs would fill with blood. It is what caused my brother’s death. It was an accident of course, I was only discovering my powers. And this,” she makes another design more intricate and a star appears. “This... the gateway to a realm you have seen before. The realm that allows you to be with your lover.”

 

As Philippa speaks the star begins to grow larger until it becomes a circle and where the witch stands now shows Michael her lover, in his monstrous form, prowling in his dark and destroyed chambers hiding from the light of the ever growing moon. 

 

“Gabriel,” she gasps, her first instinct to run through the portal and go to him but Horace holds her back. Seeing the torment she derives from it, the man is enraged at his wife. 

 

“Enough, Pippa!” He shouts and, as if coming back to herself, Philippa closes her fist tightly and the portal disappears. “That was too much.” He says to her. 

 

“Too much? She must see what we are capable of, what  _ she _ could become. It is both light and darkness that guide us through this life, Michael. Do not forget who saved you, who showed you the way of your power.” 

 

Taking her book back in hand, Philippa returns to her seat, opening to the last page she had been reading. Horace guides Michael back to the bed, gently rubbing her arm. 

 

“Get some rest.” He suggests to her, turning his head towards his wife he speaks again, “A word,  _ darling _ ?” 

 

Philippa sighs deeply and nods, dropping her book onto her chair and leaving to speak to him elsewhere. 

 

Michael, curled onto her side, steals herself against her emotions. Was Philippa being changed by the evil here or did she always possess such a dark side to herself? She had said that people like themselves drew their power from both the light and the darkness... was this place tapping into something within her that had not been awoken in many years? Michael’s instinct told her it must be so, for the woman had never been so cruel to her before, if at all.

 

Noticing her isolation for the first time, the crackling of the fire, now relaxed due to Philippa’s absence, Michael spots the forgotten book. Tempting... 

 

Rising she straightens her back. They were of the same like, cut and sewn from the same cloth. There should be no secret between them, she decides. However she knows deep down it is her own natural curiosity that gets the better of her. It had been such as when she had snuck into Landry’s room after her death to try and unearth answers. This was no different. 

 

Lifting the book she first notes how heavy it is despite its size. Perhaps the weight of the words, the secrets of such a thing, converted onto the page gave it more heft. 

 

Opening the cover she notes a date in the corner at the top right hand corner, the words were indeed written, at least in the beginning, with a clear head. But as the pages and the words progress it does not escape her attention that the handwriting becomes less easier to discern, translating the words to herself she reads one early paragraph: 

 

_ Another sister has been taken... oh, Lord. Surely, you can intervene and help us? We are but your humble and obedient wives. The Evil has begun to purge all life and love from these hallowed grounds. I fear, without your guiding Light, we are not long for this place. What am I to do? The sisters look to me, they ask me to lead them away from sin and Satan. But the devils of this place grow daily, more stronger than ever. I cannot keep them at bay, not alone.  _

 

Michael appreciates the powerlessness of the nun’s words. She too had once prayed so diligently to God, in hopes that her prayers would be answered swiftly and surely. But no such help had found her, not until a mortal and seemingly godless man stepped in to help her. Surely, Lord Pike had not been her guardian angel, simply a man who saw the wrongs affronted to her and saw fit to put them to an end. 

 

Further in, she finds the page where she had seen words that had seemed so strange and out of place at the time; 

 

_ I feel the life within me growing, the light of it. That I should choose a life away from the pleasures of the flesh, to find solace in the arms of God and these women only to have the love of a mortal man come to my aid and rescue and show me what feelings and pleasures can be found in  _ his  _ arms instead. But it is not to be, our child. He has told me what must be done so that we  _ _ all  _ _ may see the next tomorrow. It is a sacrifice I make not without much reflection. Not without much thought given to what he must do in order to expel the evil from this place, once and for all. And when it is done, when my child has given  _ _ all _ _ , when I have used it to vanquish the evil that nests here will my sisters and I know peace. I make this decision with a clear mind and a clean conscious. One life for the lives of many... a  _ _ life for a life- _

 

Michael hears the door opening, but her blood has run too cold to care that she has been discovered reading something that should have been harmless but proved the opposite. Lifting her eyes from the pages she meets those brown orbs of Philippa, Horace beside her. Her lip twitching in a snarl,

 

“You,” the word leaves Michael’s lips as she stands, still clutching the book. “You... liar!” The last word sends a gust of air ripping through the room and towards her two companions. Horace moves in front of wife, wrapping his arms around Philippa and blocking the gust from knocking them down. 

 

“Michael, calm down.” Philippa tries, fear in her voice, side stepping around her lover, but the floor has grown shaky and unstable as Michael’s anger grows more and more. 

 

“You would kill my baby!” She yells louder, if the flames had seem larger than life when Philippa’s darkness had shown its face then it was positively apocalyptic now compared to Michael’s. 

 

“It is not meant to be,” Philippa tries, sounding like the nun from the book. “It is our  _ only _ chance.”

“No,” Michael says slowly, shaking her head. “I do not believe that.” 

“You cannot send this demon back where it came from without sacrificing something else. It is the way of our world.” The woman tries more urgently as the floor beneath her feet begins to crack. 

 

“Then I shall find another way.” Michael says, she’s advanced on them, maneuvering them away from the door. She needs to escape, she’ll go on her own. She doesn’t need them. 

 

“There is  _ no other way _ !” Philippa implores, shielding her eyes from the growing fire that is now escaping the fireplace, Horace begins coughing on the heavy smoke now filling the room. “To send it back something must be given from us, something precious.” 

 

_ Precious _ ... Gabriel had described Michael as being precious to him... 

 

_ She wants our- _

 

What had he been trying to tell her? Had he not even been thinking of the spirit at all, had he not been trying to tell her that the spirit wanted their baby but... Philippa instead? 

 

_ She knows. _

 

Perhaps all this had begun with Philippa indeed wanting to help, her good intentions to aid Michael were most likely made in good faith, of that the girl had no reason to doubt. But her execution was unfavorable. 

 

“We all must make sacrifices, Michael.” The woman says strongly but Michael shakes her head again, Horace is bending over to help his wife when Michael knocks them both down with a heavy push of her mind that causes a sweat to break out at the back of her neck. 

 

“No. Not today.” Michael says finally, she turns towards the fire and extends her hand, catching some of the devouring blaze in her hand but it does not burn her. She shoots it into the book and Philippa screams and tries to go to it but Horace holds her back. Michael does nothing more but listen to the woman’s cries as she exits the room, descends the stairs and wraps her cloak about herself. She finds Smoke nestled beside her companion eating hay and shifting agitatedly due to the cold. 

 

Lifting herself onto the back of the white mare she gently knocks it’s side with her booted foot and sets off down the frigid road. It is dark, the wind is heavy and the snow billows around her like wet dust. The flames will not kill Philippa or Horace, she would not let that happen, nor would they harm anyone else. As soon as she was far enough away she was sure the flames would stop their destruction. 

 

But she would follow them no longer. They had shown her the path, they had revealed her power, they had given her the tools. She would see this deed through to the end, without giving up the light of her child and without their help. 

 

The entire household of Gallowglass, the living and the dead, were counting on her to see it through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updates. My computer charger died, I ordered another which turned out to be defective, then there was a blackout on my street which fucked the internet and then I had to go into work on my day off. Suffice to say I am more than happy that I have finally posted another chapter. I hope you guys are still enjoying the story <3


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY AN UPDATE! Sorry for the delay; work changed, I'm getting transferred, other personal life things and I had to prioritize sadly. But here you are! I hope you enjoy it <3

Despite the wind she felt on her face, despite the cold that chilled her deeper than her bones and the snow that danced about her, she felt nothing. As if everything was an act, a snowglobe of make believe. She wondered how she might actually look to a traveler passing by who was unaffected by such a trick. Did she look queer, huddling close to Smoke’s neck to shield her eyes from the snow and cold? The air felt humid, not bitterly cold, the closer she got to the manor. As if the cold was growing weaker, as if the charade couldn’t be kept up entirely. 

 

Like warm spots in a body of water, here and there reality broke through the masquerade. 

 

Perhaps if she only believed it were really cold, if she were simple minded and was not so strong as to see through the lie of the faux winter, then she would feel the cold as she had when they had first arrived in the village; but now with her new theory, the chill in her arms and legs seemed to be fading. Not growing numb, but simply not feeling anything akin to cold at all. 

 

There was no way to tell the time and admittingly, she couldn’t even recall when she had left Fiddlehead. Was it days or just mere hours? If Philippa and Horace were following her there was no way of knowing they were gaining on her. She felt the soul of the house getting closer, pulsating like a beacon, a weak candle in the dark. Michael reached out with her mind, trying to find a source to follow better so she did not get lost in this wintry hell. 

 

_ If this is all illusion, smoke and mirrors and cloak and dagger... did I ever leave the asylum? What else in this world has been altered to fit the narrative of my journey? _

 

Michael glances behind herself, Smoke halts abruptly but it does not startle the woman from her. Was someone following her there amongst this snowy tundra? The howling wind increased the pressure of it’s bite on her bones, yet she still felt a warmth from deep within herself. 

 

She once read that people who succumb to hypothermia often fell into a dreamlike sleep, allowing death to come for them without a fight, and feeling warm and safe before their end.

 

Was she dreaming now...?

 

_ What if none of it was real? What if I’m a child, lost and abandoned in a sanitarium creating a story to escape my own hell? What will happen when I reach the end of the story...? Will I wake? What if these are my last dying moments... all of this, from the beginning at Gallowglass to this very second in time, what if it was all happening within a few last breaths of my beating heart?  _

 

Michael looked forward again and urged her mare onwards. No good dwelling on such distracting thoughts. There were others waiting for her, waiting on someone to come to their aid. What horrors would she find when she arrived? It would be before the full moon hung in the dark sky, before the ritual the spirit would perform would take place. Surely, it was not too late for Sylvia or Gabriel or any of them.

 

There were devils in that house as well as lost souls who, perhaps if she could appeal to them, would help her in her fight. She did not know what power they could possess but if she could wield it in anyway she had to try. 

 

The sky above her still remained dark and ominous, like the calm before a blizzard. Moments before heavy snow would come down and cover all manner of living thing in its path.

 

_ It is... not... too... late... _

 

The wind whispered to her, but she dared not turn back. She would not stop. The house was not far away now, it couldn’t be for she had never strayed from the path which seemed to open itself to her like a door. The trees towered above her, unwavering even in the howling of the wind, like a canopy of malnourished limbs. 

 

And suddenly... a light appeared before her, perhaps half a mile up the road. No, it was not light from a house but simply a light that seemed to grow larger in density in its three dimensional form, it almost appeared tangible as if Michael could reach out and feel it as she would a fabric or cloth.

 

It pulsed like the portal had when she had seen Gabriel in their place together; but it did so like the beating of a heart. Smoke stopped short, catching Michael briefly by surprise but once more she hung on. The horse seemed to sense something from the thing, though she did not take off in flight Michael determined it was not a maleficent force.

 

“Are you the voice I have heard?” She asks it, the pulsing heartbeat like sound answers rapidly with two pulses. “Are you here to stop to me?” 

 

The force dissipates and all that remains is a white room, covered in padded walls, the likes of which Michael herself had seen with her own eyes before and felt with her own hands. 

 

There was no denying the resemblance, the uncanny mother-daughter familial looks that transcended time and age. 

 

For a moment she wondered if she were not simply seeing herself aged and this was what she really was,  _ where  _ she was. 

 

But no. There was no mistaking, there was no room for misunderstanding. It was not a demon or an angel that was hunched over, rocking steadily back and forth the only sign that the person was indeed alive. 

 

Her eyes were vacant, devoid of color and hue, as if years in confinement had blinded her. 

 

“Mama.” The word slips from Michael’s lips shakingly and queerly, a word she had not spoken in many years.

 

The straight jacket tightens with a heavy inhale and the woman looks for a voice, but she is blind. More than physical her scars reach deep into depths Michael could not imagine. 

 

“No... go away.” The woman cries brokenly. This was not the woman Michael remembered brushing her hair and bathing her, not even the woman who had been drenched in her father’s blood. 

 

Those women were worlds apart now. All that was left was this hollow shell.

 

“Mama, it’s me, it’s Michael!” She leaps from her mount, Smoke still agitated and still fearing this was some trick, something to distract her, she keeps her distance. 

 

“No. No! That- I am madder than God himself.”

 

The woman rolls away from Michael, as if to hide from her madness. But Michael knew there was absolutely no hiding from such an impending fate. 

 

“Mama, I know the truth now. Please, tell me why.” Michael cannot help the question that she blurts out, she had always known somewhere in that hidden place in her mind that Lord Sarek had to of put her mother somewhere.

 

It was easier to believe both her parents had simply died prematurely, than to remember the truth. 

 

The locked room of her mind had created that storyline too.

 

“Why... why... WHYWHYWHY!” Mama’s voice morphs into something so base and cruel it startles Michael. “Leave me in peace. Have you not taken all from me yet? My baby is dead. I pray that I did not let her suffer... that she went to God’s arms swiftly and without pain.”

 

She believed she was dead? Had that been another lie created by Lord Sarek or was that simply how Mama remembers it? 

 

“No, no I live Mama!” She pleads with the woman to listen, silently praying that Mama hear her, that if there was any sanity left in her that she would listen to it. 

 

“It is not so,” Mama whimpers. “I put the knife to my girl, to cut out the demon in her.”

 

Michael feels like a rock fell through her chest cavity into her intestines. 

 

“A... a what?” 

“The voices. She heard them... they were dark things. Had to cut them out. They were in the sire too! Had to cut them out. Had to... had to...”

 

The woman’s rambling soon turns incoherent. But it was enough for Michael to back away, to clutch the clasp of her cloak to her chest, her knuckles tightening around her gloves. 

 

The rapid beat of her heart did not feel like her own, instead it felt abnormally like it didn’t belong there at all. 

  
  


The illusion is beginning to fade, growing weaker. Even the sun is peeking out through the dense clouds. The image of her mad mother growing dimmer as the sky grew clearer, and there, beyond the image of Mama, was the tiny shape of the house. 

 

_ I could take her out of there, as Lord Pike had done for me...  _

 

Her hands stretched out only a fraction of an inch before she snatched them away. 

 

_ No... it is too late for her now.  _

 

And though it broke Michael’s heart to do it, for what child with a great love for their mother could guiltlessly turn their them away, she mounts Smoke once more; soon her mother has disappeared all together.

 

What was the spirit hoping to achieve? Another distraction, another way for it to get Michael’s past to haunt her. Showing her what she could so easily become...

 

_ Had to cut them out... _

 

Why? The Sight has never been anything but a tool for Michael, it has guided her, protected her, given her insight into those who would do her harm. Why would her mother think that  such a gift required the murder of her own child? 

 

And more so, why had her father needed to die? Did he hear them too? Had all this time Michael believed she had inherited her gifts from her mother when in truth, could they have come from her father? 

 

There were still too many questions, too many things that continued to mount themselves on her shoulders and weigh heavily in her mind to lay anchor in her heart. 

 

Urging Smoke took a little more effort this time, the mare began to grow more and more agitated. 

 

The house is closer, the closest it's been yet. 

 

“Come on, girl.” She says, grunting as she knocks the side of the mare with her boot, but it was a tough go at encouragement. The mare was tired, clearly exhausted, beginning to foam at the mouth. The bit was probably beginning to wear at her tongue too, and sighing, Michael realized she had pushed the animal too far. 

 

“Shh,” she says, stroking the mane of the large animal. She hops down gently, removes the bridal from her mouth and rubs her snout and neck. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Smoke suddenly jerks her head and Michael tries to calm her, there are footsteps approaching. Boots on gravel mixed with snow and ice... approaching, the fog has thickened and Michael turns to see a figure appearing in the gloom. The sun appearing suddenly to create a blinding and radiant spotlight on the figure, forcing Michael to shield her eyes for a moment.

 

“Burnham?” The voice of Hugh Culbar is almost music to her ears. When the blurry spots finally disappear from her vision she sees the groundskeeper standing before her looking thin and haggarded almost as shocked to see her as she is to see him. 

 

There are a few moments of shared breath, of complete disbelief on both sides, before they fling themselves into one another’s arms. She even feels him hoisting her off the ground, holding her like a little sister.

 

“My God, you came!” He exclaims, with tears running down in his hollow cheeks. 

“I’m here.” She assures him. “What has happened?”

 

He pulls away and gestures to the house, looking as terrifying as ever. 

 

“I have not been inside in... I don’t know how long. I’ve been living off what I can find. Mr. Saru and I- God, we... it was horror, Burnham. He left to the woods what feels like years ago.” He explains. “I have not seen the staff since Miss. Detmer’s death. After that... when did it happen, I do not even know.”

 

“According to a villager it happened yesterday.” Michael tells him, his eyes glaze over and he shakes his head slowly.

 

“Only... a day?” He questions and she nods, assuring him it is true. “It feels so much longer.” 

“Tell me,” Michael says strongly. “Are the others inside?” 

 

“Yes. I do not know if they are alive.” He answers grimly and she knows he must be thinking of Stamets’ fate more than the others. “I fear for all.” 

 

“I am here to put this right, Hugh,” Michael says to him. “I shall, I  _ must _ . I have discovered things about myself that could help all of us.”

 

“What things?” He asks her.

“I will show you. But first, I need to get inside.” He shakes his head and she walks with him towards the front steps. 

 

“It’s shut good and proper,” he tells her. “The doorknob turns but... nothing. And the snow is too high. It won’t open. It’s not even locked. At least not locked with any man made key.” 

 

Michael looks from Hugh to the door... what snow? The door was completely devoid of any obstruction. 

 

Shaking her head slowly she touches his wrist, 

 

“There is no snow, Hugh.”

 

He shoots her a perplexed look, an expression that she must be blind. 

 

“No,” he insists. “There, in front of you! At least eight feet high!” He points urgently, then to convince her he moves to the steps stopping inches from them. Slowly the snow beneath their feet seems to be fading, not melting just disappearing, and she knows he’s beginning to see it too.

 

Hugh rubs his eyes so hard she fears he might pull them out. He slaps his own cheek and grabs the sides of his head. She catches him as he falls to his knees. 

 

“It  _ was _ here!” He shouts, tears streaming down his face. The realization that the house was not as impenetrable as it seemed dawning on him, that the others, that his love, were not as trapped as he had believed. That he was not as powerless as this spell deceived him into thinking. 

 

“I am sorry, Hugh.” Is all she can say. “But you see now, you see that there is nothing.”

 

Fearfully he looks again, almost hoping Michael is wrong. He would give anything for her to be wrong...

 

But alas, the door stands unobstructed and easily accessible. Wiping his nose with the cuff of his tattered jacket he finally gets to his feet, standing with as much pride as he can surely muster. 

 

“That foul creature,” he says, his breath coming out in pants. “Let us put this to an end.”

 

Together they push the solid door open, it’s hinges hiss threatening sounds as if they were ready to buckle and the whole thing would come down to crush them. It swings open inwards with a heavy sigh and a sturdy thud against the wall. The floor is littered in papers, leafs, and the windows have all been opened on the first floor. 

 

From the outside the windows all appeared shuttered. 

 

“What black magic is this?” Hugh asks her as they stand before the doorway. Michael shakes her head slowly, realizing then that they are once more holding hands, a way to prop the other up against the evil they are about to face. The house even smells older, it smells ancient. It smells like the ancient ruins of the old ancestral home not miles away.

 

Dusty, dank, cold and empty. 

 

“It is older,” she explains and together they cross the threshold and into the gloom of the house. 

 

A chill passes through both of them but their hands remain locked together. 

 

_ If we are parted we stand no chance,  _ she thinks to herself. 

 

“Michael,” Hugh says quietly, as if he did not wish to disturb something. But Michael had an ominous feeling whatever he wished to hinder their presence to was already very aware of them. “What other illusions could this thing conjure?” 

 

Michael nods and thinks, 

 

“We must trust one another,” she says and he agrees. “We must confirm what the other sees. I have a strong inclination to believe this demon plays on both our fears and desires.”

 

The staircase looks rotted, but Michael cannot be sure if it is illusion or it is truly falling to bits. There was only one way to be sure. Licking her lips nervously she shares a look with Hugh.

 

“If the windows are truly open then it’s trying to keep something upstairs.” She says and, once more together, they begin the slow journey upwards. Ascending the staircase she takes in more of the damage to the house. She cannot help but wonder had it always looked this decrepit? When had the illusion truly begun and when had it ended? Or did the spirit simply have no use to let it remain beautiful as it once was? 

 

Michael jumps at the loud sound that cuts through the silence, coming from the third floor. The house seems to groan loudly, seemingly moving beneath their feet. The bannister shakes under their hands as Hugh shields her body with his own as pieces of the ceiling suddenly rain down all around them. 

 

Coughing against the dust that has fallen all around them, they brush off their clothing. She can taste the walls in her mouth. 

 

“Are you alright?” Hugh asks her and she nods. “Then further up we go.” 

 

When they reach the landing they both breathe a sigh of relief. However their reprieve is cut short when the sound of heavy running footfalls comes barreling past them, so fast in fact Michael feels wind but sees no body. 

 

“Did you feel that?” She asks Hugh but he can only stare dumbly in the direction the disembodied form had run to. 

 

“There’s more,” he whispers, glancing around himself with bloodshot eyes. “More... dead. They’re here.” 

 

Turning Michael follows his look, and sure as she lived and breathed, she saw  _ them _ . The forms of the dead, the old and the long forgotten. The revenant beings of old... the Lorcas of generations pasts. 

 

They were not but shadowy figures with the most minute of faces. Their eyes however gave all Michael needed to know. They were truly dead but there were emotions more powerful than she had ever felt pulsating from each one of them. 

 

Touching Hugh’s wrist she slowly approaches them. 

 

“Are you the dead that haunt this place?” She asks them, they simply stare, but there is not an ounce in them that would suggest they were dumb creatures. There was nothing simple about them. But why did they not speak to her? 

 

Michael reaches out with her Sight and her mind.

 

She feels their energy, their rage, she could hear their final moments of life, she could see their lips moving like leafy shadows on the limb of a tree. But there was no voice... 

 

Why could the Sight not translate it all for her? 

 

“Can you help us?” She asks more urgently. They begin to retreat into the darkness of the hallway and she follows them, Hugh close behind her, trying to dissuade her. What use could come from following the dead? “Please!” She shouts, still rushing after them.

 

Rounding the corner she smashes into a Lorca bust, where it clatters to the floor breaking into pieces. She does not stop, she pressed onward. The house continues to cry, continues to moan with the wailing of the dead. The shadows seep into the walls, the floor, the ceiling. 

 

Realizing she has somehow lost her way she looks down each end of the corridor now totally unsure of which way she had truly come. She can hear Hugh’s voice, she even sees him from far away, but he does not see her.

 

“Hugh! I’m here!” She shouts running towards him, but he grows fainter and farther away. 

“Michael! Where are you?” She stops, he cannot find her. Where has she gone? What was happening now...? He’s staring right at her but he cannot find her.

 

Where had she run to? 

 

Good God, how long has she been in the house? 

 

_ Evil has no use of time...  _

 

She needed to get ahold of herself. But she had abandoned Hugh... he was alone again. Damn her stupid need for answers. Why had she followed them? 

 

_ The child... _

 

Her head snaps down the left side of the corridor. The walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath her feet flicker in and out of focus until it becomes brighter then dimmer, and standing suddenly before her, was the ghostly and very dead figure of Lady Lorca.

 

She seemed to hover and float yet her feet remained on the ground. Her hair was not as it was the first time Michael had seen her in her dream; she looked like she had the moment she died. Mad, raving and bloodthirsty. Blood oozed from the back of her head and onto a bare shoulder, from where Stamets had shot her. 

 

Despite the terrifying look in the dead woman’s eyes when she spoke she had the voice of an elegant and educated lady,

 

“I tried to warn you.” Lady Lorca says, her voice filtering in and out of audible tone, reaching out between worlds to hold this conversation. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “Where am I?” 

 

Lady Lorca looks around herself then back at Michael.

 

“An in between place, it has put you here. You should not have followed them. They are hers now. Most of them.” 

 

Hers, them? 

 

“You mean the dead?” Michael asks and Lady Lorca nods, more blood drips down her arm to her wrist and her hand. Suddenly she gasps and her eyes grow wide, then roll back into her head. For a moment she doesn’t move until her eyes come back to the front. Michael realizes the woman is remembering her death, feeling it as if it were brand new. 

 

“The others that remain are afraid.” Lady Lorca explains. “When the sun sets the ritual will begin.” 

 

Michael has no way of knowing when that will be. For all she knows it was night now and the ritual was taking place. 

 

“Can you help me? Can you convince the others to help me?” Michael asks her quickly. 

“Why should they? Why should we atone for our sins when there is nothing that can be done?”

 

Michael grits her teeth, she hears Hugh calling her name but she cannot answer him now. There was no way of getting out of this in between land, as Lady Lorca called it, without help from the  _ other side _ . 

 

“You were seduced by the desire to have a child,” Michael says. “She is innocent in all of this. She must not pay for your sins!” 

 

Lady Lorca floats-walks near Michael, hovering at her shoulder like a sheet in the wind.

 

“There is nothing I can do to change the past,” Lady Lorca says grimly. “And that is all I wish to change.” 

 

“I can release you from this prison, I can put an end to this. But you must help me.” 

“Not without giving something up yourself.” Lady Lorca counters and looks Michael up and down, sighing with deep regret. “He gave you what I could not get from him.” 

 

“That is not my cross to bare.” Michael says, protectively touching her stomach. 

“No. It is all he ever wanted. Look what men make us do,” Lady Lorca chuckles, touching the back of her head, her blood as crimson as if it were freshly drawn. “Look what we do to ourselves!” 

 

“Please, I beg you, at least give me a chance to make this right.” 

 

Lady Lorca floats to where the bust had broken, the pieces slowly beginning to mend themselves. From here Michael can see the horrible hole in her head, the brain and the broken bits of skull.

 

“I will commune with the others,” Lady Lorca says over her shoulder. “But I will make no promise they will help.” 

 

A breath later she disappears and the floor disappears from beneath Michael’s feet and she lands with a solid thud on her backside.

 

“Michael!” Hugh rushes towards her, helping her to feet. “Where did you go?” 

“I cannot be sure.” She says, groaning as she stands. “Where are we?”

 

“The third floor,” he says, though Michael feels suddenly dizzy. Had she not dropped from the second but ascended higher to the third? What manner of terrible trickery was this? Even the les malevolent souls of this place seemed hellbent on driving Michael to madness. 

 

“We must go to Sylvia’s room.” Michael says urgently. 

“Where are the others?” He asks her and she shakes her head.

“I do not know, but I have a terrible feeling as to their whereabouts.” 

 

When they reach Sylvia’s door Michael gasps in horror. The door is covered with terrible scratches, created only by one beast she knows could make such marks. She follows the claws down with her own fingernails. They had come from a five fingered hand... a beast on two legs. 

 

“Sylvia!” She slams her fist so hard into the wood she knows she’s hurt herself but she doesn’t care. “It’s Michael, I’ve come back!” She shouts louder, her lungs and throat growing hoarse. There is no light from the other side of the door, Hugh holds her close to stop her from hurting herself. 

 

“Please, I came back, I’ve come back.” She pleads to the white painted oak, once beautiful and lovely for a delicate little lady turned torn and broken. 

 

“Maybe she’s somewhere else.” Hugh says sadly. 

“Sylvia...” She whispers. 

 

Hugh jerks when the lock turns and the door opens but a crack, 

 

“Michael?” The voice is hardly recognizable, she’s grown... she’s aged. 

 

_ Remember the promise we made, the promise that I would protect you. _

 

Sylvia is taller, her dress fitting poorly at the knees and under her arms. Had no one been looking after her? Perhaps they had tried, perhaps she would not let them, perhaps she wouldn’t let them in any longer.

 

The door opens more, Hugh releases Michael and they both hold their breath. Sylvia watches them closely, as if she were afraid they were not real. Her hands clutch the old door like a shield. 

 

“Is it truly you?” The girl asks her, that girlish timber and quiver still prevalent. Michael nods eagerly and holds her arms out.

 

“Please, will you come to me?” Michael asks hesitantly. 

“Where did you go? Why did you leave me?” Sylvia asks instead, closing the door only the smallest of inches but it forces Michael closer. Pleading with the girl not to such her out.

 

“I didn’t want to leave, I swear it.” Michael says resolutely. 

“I have been so afraid.” Sylvia confesses, her eyes darting about the hallway behind them, as if at any moment something will come to take them away. Just as Michael swears she can feel a presence creeping up behind the house shifts once more causing a shriek to leave Sylvia’s mouth. 

 

This was not uncommon for her, she felt the house was alive too.

 

“Please, come with me.” Michael tries again, reaching out to the girl once more. Sylvia seems to contemplate this for a moment before darting back into the room only to reappear once more. 

 

This time wrapped in a small cloak. The girl still trembled madly, half heartedly standing between the door and the hallway outside. The house continued to omit it’s terrible noise, Hugh looked about madly, Michael was attempting to recreate some semblance of normalcy; however she quickly reminded herself that the realm of “normal” had ceased centuries ago in this place. 

 

Michael, Hugh and Sylvia were simply another set of players and pawns in a long line of individuals who had been lured into Gallowglass, only to be lost forever. But Michael had no intention of getting herself lost again. Now that Sylvia had been found safe and alive they could continue the search for the rest of the staff.

 

The music had no melody as they moved towards the only place Michael believed they would be. And in truth the only two who remained were Stamets and Owosekun, and of course, her beloved lordship. All around them the dead minions of the evil spirit seemed to linger, growing less afraid to show themselves. Had Lady Lorca’s spirit communed with the others who did not follow the demon that possessed this once harmonious place?

 

Would Lady Lorca even give her an answer or would she simply let Michael and the others be taken as the others who had inhabited Gallowglass be taken?

 

Sylvia clings tightly to Michael’s side as Hugh brings up the rear, out of the corner of her eye the girl sees a flash of something menacing that has haunted her dreams for years and she screams in terror as the thing descends upon Culbar. 

 

Startled by the sudden movement and commotion Michael shields Sylvia from whatever has caused her to scream in such a bloodcurdling way. 

 

Hugh thrashes madly on the floor as queer beings with cloven feet and hunched emaciated bodies tackle and pull at him wildly, horrid laughter filling the air around them.

 

“Hugh!” Michael shouts his name but he cannot seem to hear as he is being dragged away by creatures who should not physically be capable of such strength to pull a grown man away.

 

“Get her out, Michael!” Hugh shouts as he struggles to stand and defend himself from the beings. Within seconds Culbar and the little beings disappear into thin air, nothing but a foul stench of sulfur lingers and a dark spot on the wood floor as if it had been burned remained where he had laid attempting to free himself. 

 

It had all happened so quickly Michael could hardly think that she was once more alone with the child to care for. 

 

“Give her up.” A voice says from the walls as they breathed to life, the floor swaying as if to knock the two off balance. 

 

Sylvia buries her face in Michael’s waist, her arms bound to her. 

 

“Come on.” Michael says, forcing herself to continue the walk to his lordship’s quarters. The music grows so loud she hears glass breaking somewhere and her own eardrums pound with the intensity it creates. A heavy below is released from the bowels of the house. Michael feels like she’s being forced to walk uphill with a heavy weight at her ankles. 

 

“I feel sick, Michael.” Sylvia says fearfully, glancing at the girl’s features Michael notes the girl is unbelievably pale and her brow is sweaty, dark rings around her eyes like sad clown makeup. 

 

“She has not long.” The voice returns, flitting in and out of Michael’s left and right ear. Her own body feels heavier and she too feels utterly sick to her stomach with nausea, the natural equilliberium of her body failing her. Her knees are beginning to buckle under the strain; even the hallway appears to be moving at a queer angle. She is walking upward... upward... the invisible weight at her ankles making it harder and harder to move.

 

_ No... it’s forward, a straight line...  _

 

She tries telling herself it’s all another illusion, another petty parlor trick to distract her from her goal. 

 

“Aren’t you tired?” The voice whispers, she even feels lips at her neck and Sylvia squeezes her waist even tighter. She can hear Culbar telling her to get out, to get out and stay out. It’s a lost cause. She cannot defeat this evil. She’s not strong enough. She was too naive, too thick headed to heed anyones warning. 

 

“Should you not lie down and rest?” The voice asks her, the concern is almost too convincing. She does wish to lie down... when was the last time she had truly slept? What was the time? It didn’t matter. Rest... she’ll just lean against the wall and shut her eyes for a little while, just a short time.

 

Michael feels something on her cheeks... it tickles and she crinkles her nose at the offensive feeling. It won’t stop, it keeps coming back. She raises a heavy hand to swat it away.

 

“You silly thing!” A voice says to her and when she opens her eyes she’s in a beautiful little sitting room. The ornate decorations are eclipsed only by the beautiful candlelight. The woman in her fine red dress wears a satin blue ribbon in her hair, she looks eerily familiar but Michael cannot place her. 

 

“You had a lie down and never came back to the party.” The woman says, helping Michael to her feet and plumping out her fine golden and white skirts. The fan in the woman’s hands moves across her face once more brushing against her cheeks with a featherlight touch. 

 

“How silly of me.” Michael says, forgetting herself for a moment. 

“Come, he’s waiting for you.” The woman says taking Michael’s hand and leading her towards a door. Michael stops her, their gloved hands intertwined. She knows this woman but how? They must be old friends. How long had she rested? 

 

“Who?” Michael asks and the woman only laughs and turns the heavy brass knob. 

“Your husband! My, my, I have heard of the hysterics new brides face but this, dear sister in law, is truly one for the history books.”

 

The woman brings Michael through the door to a sea of waltzing bodies, their faces covered over with exaggerated masks of the living and the dead, of creatures of fantasy and myth, animal and man playing together in a symphony of gaiety. 

 

“It is my wedding day.” Michael whispers under her breath a wave of elation passing over her. The finest ballroom of Gallowglass Manor, the man she loves waiting for her by the piano allowing a man wearing a mask of the devil playing. He looks so utterly handsome, the man who chose her and the man she chose herself. 

 

She is no longer lead by the woman, instead she walks alone towards him, the masses of bodies seem to part for her like the Red Sea. His hands outstretched towards her she falls into him and he holds her dearly to his chest. 

 

“I had the strangest dream,” Michael whispers against his chest, his scent encompassing her, protecting her. 

 

“Tell me.” He whispers, and she cannot hear the roar of the guests any longer. He is swaying them slowly, her ball gown brushing his legs and creating the most tantalizing of feelings. 

 

“It is leaving me now,” she says and she tilts her head up towards him, meeting his perfectly blue eyes. Eyes she remembers seeing for the first time somewhere in a far away land. “Only the feelings remain.” 

 

“Was it a good dream?” He asks her, leaning towards her lips. Had she ever felt so loved before? Had she ever felt so safe and warm and sheltered from the world...?

 

Michael smiles and is ready to move her lips to answer when she notices a tiny black speck flitting around his ear. Tilting her chin with his fingers he turns her face back to his.

 

“I love you, darling.” He says to her. 

“And I-” the same speck reappears and she squints... what is that infernal thing? 

 

“Michael?” He says her name but she cannot look away. The fly will not go away! The black fly... a harbinger of something she’s supposed to remember. An icy bitterness sweeps through her chest... his face seems so false. It looks more like the masks one of these poor players would wear, waxy, lifelike but dead. Even his eyes look more like glass than anything. 

 

“My love?” He says, his lips unmoving, because he has no lips. They are simply painted on a fixture meant to only appear manlike. 

 

“You... you are not real.” She says slowly backing away from the warmth of his embrace, which has also disappeared, the flies beginning to grow in numbers. 

 

“I am real, my love.” He says coming towards her. The guests continue their puppet like dance however their limbs no longer move and they move like figurines in a music box; lifeless and animated. 

 

Their bones are hollows, their eyes are dead. 

 

“Get away. Get away from me!” She shouts and she searches deeply within her soul to find what she has forgotten. To find the thing she was supposed to remember. 

 

It wasn’t real, none of it was real. A heavy weight is at her back, at her sides and above her. It’s crushing her. His movements are robotic, false and she cries out as he begins to fall literally to pieces before her very eyes. None of it is real! The beautiful light that lit the room is blown out and all that remains is a dusty old room filled with boxes and bins of memories that refuse to be forgotten. 

 

Her beautiful wedding gown is replaced with a tattered rag of a gown, the boxes of dust and sadness call to her. She goes to them, giving into the siren’s call. 

 

Portraits of the dead, sketches of children born with mutated limbs, lost little children’s souls. Little shoes that would never be worn. Infant clothes that had never been used. 

 

“They would have been our children.” The voice speaks, Michael turns to see the woman in red. Her face is no longer soft and welcoming like a sister. She approaches her, her dark hair and blue eyes reminding Michael so much of Gabriel. 

 

“A family trait,” the spirit says, lifting an empty little shoe with one finger. “But none that I bore would ever live past crying out their first breaths.”

 

“Katherine.” Michael breathes the name and the woman scoffs and drops the shoe back into the box, dust erupting from it like fire. 

 

“You think you know my story,” the ghost says- neigh, not ghost. She would have had to still be human at her death, whenever that came. She was too far gone to have been human, her soul was for not. Forsaken long ago, given to the dark man when she first attained her supernatural powers. 

 

“You think you know my family,” the spirit continues, lifting a medieval portrait of a man who so uncannily looks like Gabriel and who is undoubtedly the brother Katherine had impurely loved.  

 

“Heinrich and I could have been so happy had he only let me show him.” The spirit says fondly, her bare shoulders exposed by her low cut gown. “I was always the more beautiful, the wittiest and the most intelligent. I could have had any man, any knight who gave me their affection.” 

 

“You had no children, you were burned.” Michael says, fearing that perhaps history had been wrong. “And the dead cannot have children.” 

 

The spirit sets the old portrait down and a bell begins to chime loudly throughout the house, shaking the foundations. She breathes deeply as the moon begins to rise and sets the room alight.

 

“Witches cannot die.” The spirit says looking into Michael’s eyes. “I tried many times. Many Lorca spawn through the generations. But none of them were Heinrich.” She says. “Until... oh, that sweet baby boy came into this world again. I had to wait of course, I had to wait for him to grow. I had to wait for him to come home. But I knew my master had given Heinrich back to me. It is true, I cannot bare real children, but I have given my master so many soldiers.” 

 

The little monsters who had dragged Culbar away, those were the offspring of her seducing her relatives over the years. Good God Almighty what was Satan’s work here? It horrified Michael. 

 

“But he would not have me, not even as his wife,” the spirit says looking mad and forlorn all at once. “And still, no child. I realized I had to take such drastic measures. Pity really. But now the child is grown, I shall still have to wait a few more years before he would consider... such actions towards her. But she is not his blood and he is still a man after all.” 

 

Michael feels the rage inside her. The point had never been to kill Sylvia, just use her. It was sickening! How was Michael to fight and destroy this being? The house shuddered yet again. 

 

“Make it stop!” Michael shouts, the nausea returning as well but the weight was not as terrible. Through the groaning walls she swears she could hear the cry of Sylvia and even more present the cry of a beast... a wolf. The heavy, panting breaths that send shivers down her spine.

 

The spirit either does not hear it or chooses to ignore it, Michael cannot say. 

 

“The house is calling to you, Michael,” the spirit continues, her voice soft like a melody. 

“No,” she says strongly. “I will not be tricked by you again.”

 

“Again?” The spirit says with a cackle. “Darling girl, the house shows you only what you want to see. I made it so, long ago. This house will always be mine.”

 

At her feet Michael sees the terrible little grim creatures emerging from the shadows. The wailing house, the claws at her legs tearing her already tattered garments further. 

 

“My master has heard so much about you,” the spirit says, watching her demonic children scatter themselves across Michael’s body. “He is simply dying to meet you.”

 

The howl is louder and closer than ever and this time Michael is sure the spirit has heard it too, for her hand flies over the heart that surely does not exist. She would be beautiful if she were not so evil. Perhaps though, in some morbid way, Katherine thinks she is right in what she does. But right or wrong aside, it was not natural. 

 

“Why can you not let him be, Katherine? Do you not see he is not your brother you loved and died for!” 

 

The spirit groans uncouthly, so much so it is out of character. A look of pure boredom creeps onto her face, shaking her head as if she were disappointed. Approaching Michael slowly the spirit strokes the neck of one of her bastard spawn, it clucks and slithers out a forked tongue across Michael’s cheek; she cringes at the stench of death and sulfur from it’s hideous little maw. All sharp teeth and menacing hisses. They have wrapped themselves around her like snakes.

 

Taking a firm hold on Michael’s chin the spirit gazes deeply into her eyes, and the girl swears she feels absolutely no soul from this creature of evil.

 

“You mortals,” she begins slowly with an air of disgust. “So primitive in your deductions. Were you never taught, little mongrel, that history was always written by the victor?” 

 

Michael feels heat coming from where the beasts have attached themselves to her, the howling growing closer, the cries of Sylvia, then when she glances downward the fire is in her hand... but she is not  _ in _ the fire. She is holding a torch and slowly approaching a pyre where a woman stands bound and weeping helplessly. 

 

_ “Dear sister will you not speak on my behalf?”  _ The woman asks fearfully, her head shaved, her face beaten black and blue and purged of any beauty she might have at one time possessed. 

 

_ “There is nothing more I can do. God be with you, sister.”  _

_ “NO!”  _

 

The torch is thrown and Michael watches as the woman screams in agony, the smoke billowing hard against the wind. 

 

The memory is momentary but it is all Michael needs to put the final pieces together. 

 

“That is how you survived,” Michael whispers, practically forgetting that a beast is knocking at the door. “You killed your own sister...  _ Eleanor _ .” 

 

The spirit sighs in relief, as if Michael was finally in on the joke, as if she felt a great sense of appeasement from it. 

 

“She was quite mad,” Eleanor says candidly. “I tried telling her she was too weak to play with our master. But she just would not stop badgering me.” She laughs, almost sweetly. “It was so easy to convince everyone, except Heinrich of course who never looked at me with trusting eyes again. But... he was a man and they are so easily convinced by a woman’s charms.” She smirks and Michael wants to spit on her. She murdered her own nephew, killed her own sister and defiled generations of innocent people. 

 

“Why? Why?” Michael asks her, remembering her raving mama had asked her the same thing. 

“ _ Why? _ ” Eleanor mimics her. “Because... I like it and because Heinrich will always be worth the wait.” 

 

The door rattles on its hinges and Eleanor whispers something to her children, a moment later she shoves Michael with her minds to the floor. The old wood scrapes her knees and she lands on her palms hard. The fireplace roars to life, the flames coming out of the grate but it sets nothing on fire. 

 

“My beast comes,” Eleanor says breathlessly, she even raises a hand to her hair as if to fix it, to make herself presentable. “Time away from you has helped no matter how you were able to break through to that little...  _ paradise  _ of yours. He will come and when he does he will appease me and tear the flesh from you and together we will be as one again. Devoted entirely.” 

 

The door flies apart in shards around Michael and she covers her face to protect herself. The Sight remains silent in this darkness. She was too weak. Philippa was right... there was no way she could do this alone. How could she have thought she was powerful enough? 

 

Staring down at the granular floor, debris about her, she glances up as she feels his heavy breath upon her, hot and hard. She’s shaking, staring into a mouth full of sharp teeth made by the devil himself, made for breaking bone and killing. Not for gently holding her, not for love, not for safety. An apex predator loomed above her and she waited for it’s killing blow. 


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this probably wasn't the super long chapter you've all been hoping or waiting for. But this chapter was very difficult to write. Also, life got in the way in a BIG way! I hope you enjoy the update! :) <3

She was so frail and small, he could break her in half with one paw. He could sink his teeth into her throat and be done with it, reveling in the way her jugular would pop under the weight of his jaws. 

 

The drive to kill told him so. He had killed before, relished in it even. He had made the dark bitch pant beneath him before when everything in him had told him to tear her apart. Rip her soft little body limb from limb. Instead he had done nothing of the sort. Instead there had been a gentleness from her he had grown to crave more than her death. 

 

The female had smelled more alluring than what he was prepared for. Ripe, wet and musky. An earthy flavor he longed to lose himself in, the mother of the forest. The beast had sensed something more, too. Something instinctual that went beyond killing, beyond the hunt. It had felt like...  _ life _ .  _ His _ life. Her own life was literally in the palms of his hands, his claws inches from tearing her guts out. 

 

But it was what laid beyond the flesh, beneath the bone and  _ in  _ the blood that stopped him.  _ His  _ blood. Deeper still, he could hear the innocent and weak cries from far away. Not of the woman, but of something else. And instead of desiring to do her harm he found himself lusting to protect her. 

 

She’s shaking even now under him, on her knees and half naked. He crawls on all fours towards her, stalking her. But the lady,  _ his _ lady who had given him this power also commanded him with great zeal and vigor. 

 

Who was he to deny his lady? 

 

“You know me.” The woman says, her voice quivering, her tears erupting another wave of bloodlust as he turns her onto her side, her hand convulsing against his chest. 

 

“Do not make it quick,” his lady orders him from a few feet away. “I want this to last.” 

 

He growls low in his chest as he lowers his jaw and swipes her cheek with his vicious canines, barely breaking the skin. 

 

“No,  _ Gabriel _ , you are stronger than this!” The frail woman tries to tell him. She’s trying to look at him but she’s on her belly now, prone and helpless. Something tickles him at the back of his neck. Something so beautiful and pure it startles him and to stop it he growls hard against her throat and she shudders, for this  _ feeling _ is coming from her, pouring onto him like holy water. 

 

He wants to tell her to stop whatever witchcraft she is using. He sees light emanating from her, all around her, starting in her fingertips to the edges of her hair. 

 

It is as his human counterpart had once seen her... an angel. An angel of pure, untainted light. 

 

His breathing slows and once more he smells her, how unobtainable she is. And yet she is before him, helpless to stop whatever he wishes to do to her. His lady orders him again,

 

“Do it.” 

 

She had ordered him to kill before, it has been so easy then. So many lives... 

 

The long nights of prowling the halls and the grounds of this ancient place. This monument to death. This hollow family crypt. 

 

Why wasn’t he obeying her? 

 

Because the light was growing stronger. 

 

“You do not want to kill me, Gabriel.” The woman says to him, finally turning to look into his large black eyes. Gabriel? That is not his name. He has no name. He has no purpose but to serve his lady, to do her good bidding as she saw fit. “We  _ love _ each other.” 

 

He lets out a heavy groan, even bordering on a whine and she slowly raises her hand again, touching his ridged brow, the leathery skin beneath shivering under her touch. 

 

_ This is  _ his _ woman.  _

 

The lady... his lady, the face that controlled him... she would hurt this woman. Hurt what was his. He feels her approaching, confidently. 

 

“Be done with it!” She shouts but she’s getting too close and he swipes a clawed hand at her, missing her by mere inches and she stumbles backward obviously shocked. Taking the woman beneath him by the shoulders he raises his big head and bares his humongous teeth at the miserable spirit who had controlled him for so long. 

 

“No,” the lady whispers, “You are not hers. She is nothing but meat on the bone and I order you to kill her!”

 

“No.” He grunts the words, hardly even human and lunges at her. She raises her hands and a blast of darkness hits him in the chest and he stumbles for a moment. She wasn’t trying to kill him, simply stun him. But she was afraid... and if she was afraid it meant she could be harmed. 

 

From her position below Michael watches as Gabriel circles the woman but she stands defiantly, her hands raised in position to strike him again if need be. The moon has washed the room in silver and blue light and from beyond the room Michael hears Sylvia more clearly than ever. It is then that she knows with this distraction and unforeseen event that the magic keeping her from the girl is waning. 

 

Getting to her feet she runs swiftly out of the room and she listens as Gabriel growls, keeping Eleanor where she is.

 

“NO!” She hears her roar over her thundering footsteps. The minions erupt around her through the walls and ceiling, landing on her back, clawing at her skin. 

 

She grips one around the neck and using her mind and the Sight sends the thinnest beam of light through its protruding skull, it cries out only for a moment before she lets it drop from her hand in a puddle of black ooze. She turns her attention to the rest of them; they are but mortal repugnant creatures, nothing she could not defeat. 

 

She flings old furniture and paintings at them, crushing their little bodies into smithorions; smashing them beneath tables and against walls. Another bites her ankle and she conjures water to drown it from moisture in the air. 

 

Limping slightly she finds Sylvia in the center of a broad circle, fire raging all around her but it does not destroy it simply rests, a few more minutes and the full moon outside the window will penetrate the room perfectly onto the circle. 

 

“Michael!” Sylvia breathes as Michael enters the room. The heat is overpowering and yet it burns nothing but the area it lies. Another falsehood? Only one way to be sure. 

 

“I’m coming, Sylvia.” Michael promises and she takes a long breath and enters the circle of fire. It does not harm her. She smiles as Sylvia rushes to her and the two wrap their arms around each other. 

 

“The others.” Sylvia says, glancing over her shoulder. Michael sees them then, Stamets and Owosekun floating beyond the ring of fire, frozen in time, expressions of horror on their faces. But Michael still feels life from them, they are simply stone. 

 

“Come on.” Michael says strongly, taking Sylvia’s hand she projects a bubble of protection around the girl in case the fire attempts to harm her. She sends Sylvia through first and the girl goes to the other side unharmed as the light around her disappears. Michael attempts to conjure the same for herself but her hands are shaking and she’s too weak. She’s used too much energy.

 

The ring of fire grows hotter and brighter.

 

“Michael!” Sylvia cries, her small pale hand outstretched towards her... everything slows as Michael begins to succumb to her exhaustion. Sylvia is still reaching out, her mouth frozen, the whole room room is tilting sideways but nothing falls. Not Sylvia, not Stamets or Owosekun. The old and broken furniture remain where they are, the paintings remain hung to the walls as she watches everything shift...

 

On her knees, breathing heavily she sees a hand in front of her. 

 

Lifting her eyes slowly she meets the eyes of a man she does not recognize but whom she knows instinctively. For he’s been there since the day she was born, watching her grow from the shadows. Watching, doing everything within his power to bring her closer to him. And he has achieved his goal.

 

“Michael,” the man says as if greeting an old lover. She takes his hand as he helps her to his feet. His hand is so hot that it almost burns, his eyes black pools of oil. “It is has been too long my dear.”

 

Above his head, in the far corner she sees a bright star, for the ceiling has disappeared and all around them above is the darkest night sky save for the single star that harrolds his arrival. 

 

The master... the dark man, the one who has helped shape her life. Like a knife carving wood.

 

He was handsome but it was all a facade, he simply did not wish to frighten her. 

 

“You have come so far,” he says kindly, cupping her cheek and wiping away from her tears. “I am so proud of you.” 

 

“What do you want?” Michael asks him, fearing him but tired of his games. It has been too many years of hiding from him; hiding behind a cross, behind her mother’s madness, behind her past burying all of her fears in that little room inside her mind. 

 

“I have only wanted you,” he answers, his thumb sliding across her bottom lip. “But Eleanor owes me a great debt and you have interrupted her restitution.” 

 

“I am sorry to be a disappointment.” She spits and he laughs warmly. 

“I grow tired of her,” he tells Michael. “She believes herself beyond punishment. The bargain we struck long ago has withered, she has caused great pains to me. Perhaps you and I could come to an arrangement. You seem a little out of your depth.”

 

Swallowing Michael knows of what he speaks; the meaning is heavy and tastes sour, like rotten eggs. 

 

“You would help me defeat her?” Michael asks, knowing full well what game this is. Knowing he will double cross her for that is his nature. She must be careful. 

 

“I would, for you, my dear.” He says, lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles and she feels a sinful pleasure rip through her. 

 

“You would restore this place, these people, and his lordship.” She clarifies and he nods his head. “And in return you want... me?” 

 

Looking deeply into her eyes he cups her cheeks and blinks slowly. 

 

“All I ask is for you to serve me.” He tells her, bringing her closer towards him, she feels the tempting heat from his body. 

 

_ Michael... _

 

She turns her head at the sound of the voice, but the dark man turns her back to face him. 

 

“For how long?” She asks and he laughs darkly at her. 

“Time is meaningless,” he tells her. “All of this,” he gestures around them. “The blink of an eye to me.”

 

“I need to know or we have no bargain.” He sighs deeply and rests his chin on top of her head. 

“For the term of your pregnancy.” He says simply. She shudders, her hand going to her belly and he gently rocks her.

 

“Tsk, tsk,” he says almost in a fatherly tone. “It’s alright, my dear. Give me this time to show you true power and all of your friends will be restored. Everything that has happened here will be made right. Isn’t that what you want, Michael? To make it right?”

 

His eyes are so comforting, even in their blackness. His voice calms her, soothes her. 

 

“And at the end of my pregnancy?” She asks him and he smiles gently, his canines long, almost pearl white and sharp. 

 

“You will come home.”

“And my child?” 

 

He laughs again, light hearted as if he’s heard the most humorous joke.

 

“You don’t want me to double cross you,” he says smartly. “And why would I ever do that?”

“Because you’re the devil himself,” Michael replies quickly. “And you do nothing without purpose or plan.”

 

He sighs again and shakes his head.

 

“And I thought we knew each other better. Very well. By the end of your pregnancy you will be returned, however I cannot promise you shall want to return.”

 

“And why is that?” She counters and he grasps her by her upper arms strongly, so strongly that it startles her. 

 

_ Michael! _

 

“Because, as you said my dear, I am the devil himself.” He whispers so seductively that she nearly goes limp in his arms. He presses his mouth to hers and she feels herself give into him, opening her mouth and twining her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair and feeling him so purely against him. 

 

When he pulls away the fire has disappeared and the room has been repositioned to the way it was before. 

 

“Oh, wait for it, there’s more to this show.” He says, holding her to him. He waves his hand and the room is engulfed in bright light. Sylvia still stands there with her hand stretched out, the door is open wide and Michael sees to her horror that Gabriel stands in the door frame in a half man half human form... his eyes filled with tears as he stares at her with the darkly alluring Lucifer. 

 

_ I’m sorry... _

 

The wind cracks like a whip, the dust flies upward before disappearing, the furniture is replaced, mended and everything is growing to be as it once was. The darkness is disappearing, the full moon still looms outside but the ominous glow has ended. 

 

Michael hears the spirit screaming and suddenly Eleanor is before them, hanging in the air, attempting to free herself. Her horrible little children are fighting against the dark magic that is killing them, melting them into disgusting little puddles at her feet. He’s making her watch her kill them. 

 

“Please! I have the child, I can give you her soul!” Eleanor pleads to him but he’s not listening. He’s ripping away the countless layers of flesh and souls she has stolen. The ghostly figures of long dead Lorca ancestors and servants appear floating around her. 

 

“Please! They’ll reap me!” Eleanor pleads but he simply shrugs. 

“You have owed your debt too long, Eleanor.” He says, approaching her, hand in hand with Michael. 

 

“Do you feel her power?” He asks Michael, she does. It is not the Sight, not in the way she knows it. It’s different... stronger than any of the voices she has ever heard before. As if she is tapping into his power directly. 

 

Michael watches as Eleanor begins withering, growing smaller in form. Her hair falling in gray heaps to the ground to turn to ash at their feet. 

 

“You had so much potential,” he says almost sadly. “You were one of my favorites.”

 

“I... I can... still-”

“No. You are theirs now.”

 

He gestures to the spirits watching from the shadows. 

 

“NO!” Eleanor cries out as the spirits begin descending upon her, bringing her kicking and screaming into the walls of the house with them. 

 

“Your lover is also restored,” Lucifer says as he turns to her and cups her cheek. “I think we should be going.” 

 

He waves his hand over the ground beneath them and a dark portal opens, he takes a step into an unseen staircase... but as he holds her hand he suddenly rips his hand away and he cannot seem to move her. As if she... 

 

“You smart little chit.” He says locking his eyes with her. Michael smiles and removes her hand from behind her back, her fingers crossed.

 

“It was worth a try,” she says, exhaling a sigh of relief. “I didn’t think it would work.”

 

He comes towards her again, attempting to touch her but he is shocked away by a flash of light and he has to cover his eyes. 

 

“It would seem someone stronger than you has more invested in me.” Michael says, she cannot help herself but to smile. His upper lip curls into a sneer and he bares his teeth at her.

 

“This doesn’t happen to me,” he tells her knowingly and he grabs at her wrist again but another burst of lights erupts from her. 

 

“It happens to all men.” She taunts him and his portal begins to close. 

 

“This isn’t over, witch,” he tells her. “I will have what is mine.”

“And I will be waiting.” She vows, tilting her head to him. 

 

The dark man straightens his suit and descend his staircase to his hell, his underworld that she nearly had to suffer in misery in. But no... it had worked! Her plans had worked, she had tricked the devil himself. She bursts out into hysterical tears for the briefest moments before she feels a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Paul!” She shouts, flinging her arms around the stuffy butler, who embraces her back. “Owosekun!” The mute made embraces her as well. They smell so wonderful, they feel amazing. They feel alive and wonderful and pure and alive. 

 

“Sylvia.” Michael says, moving towards the girl who appears asleep on the floor, Gabriel resting beside her. She brushes her hand over her wild red curls and kisses her forehead. The girl squints for a moment before opening her eyes. 

 

“Michael.” She breathes, sitting upright. The stirring awakens his lordship. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head. He sees her, their eyes meeting as she cradles Sylvia to her chest. But with one hand she reaches out to him and the moment their fingertips meet they both know this is not a dream. This not some strange in between world where at any moment a vengeful spirit will tears them apart. 

 

Selfishly, she wishes Sylvia was not in her lap so that she may lay against his lordship. But there is a comfort in his eyes, a sweetness that says, “No, later, I will hold you later”. 

 

It is a silent promise made with their eyes, made with their shared spiritual connection that had never been broken. Through time, through space and reality and realms apart, they had always been together. 


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First the obligatory apology: lots has happened in my personal life since starting this fic and trying to end it. And the end IS in sight, I promise. I know this probably isn't as long as you hoped but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. <3

When she slept, Michael slept for days. The house was finally put to rest. There were no night terrors, there were no bouts of her subconscious running from horrors of years past. She was not stalked in her dreams by monsters of the undead. Terrible witches who had ceased being human long ago did not return to try and steal her soul. She had fallen asleep with pride and a queer sense of glee that she, Michael Burnham, had outwitted and outplayed the slipperiest and most cleverest of all dark beings. The Devil’s pride had been tarnished and he had not received any satisfaction from it. In time perhaps he would try to lay claim to her again.

 

But until then, the deep sleeping insightful songs of her sisters kept her safe and out of his clutches. The Sight was stronger than it had ever been before. The black magic the Devil had poured into Michael after extracting it from Eleanor had not done what he had believed it would do. 

 

To be sure, there was still darkness in the threads of the new magic Michael now possessed. But the power of the light forced it to bend to her will, at least for now.

 

At times during her rest, Michael could swear sometimes she was being moved. Perhaps over only a few inches, and the sensation of an arm around her waist never seemed to leave her. It was present, so very near, as if the touch reached into depths of her that were below the surface. 

 

She knew it was her Gabriel. She did not see him physically in her dreams but she felt him. His demons had never been so silent before. They had once been tormenting figures that seemed to break free from the realm of reality,  _ their _ reality. But now there was no noise, no murmur of a maleficent force. 

 

When Michael opens her eyes it is still night, the curtains were drawn wide open, the shutters locked to the wall, the blue light of the night sky washing the room in a heavenly glow. He’s not behind her, but in front of her on his side, holding her hand against his chest. She smiles dreamily. 

 

_ This is what love is,  _ she thinks, the window blinking in and out of focus as tiredness begins to take over again.  _ We can have it... eternally. _

  
  


_ X _

  
  


In mortal form He conjured elements to crush to His will. It made Him feel... powerful over human beings. He brought forth the souls of the damned, spirits who had been culled long ago, and He tormented them again, tacked new sentences onto their already insurmountable punishments. He murdered villages in a blizzard, freezing women and children and men alike. His rampage went on and on and on in the underworld. 

 

Evanora yawned, His tantrums were always so childish. It was not the first time He had been spurned, however it had been nearly a millennium since it had been a woman... a  _ mortal _ woman no less. She kept to the shadows, ever present... ever enslaved by His every whim. Not that it mattered or that she really cared in the end.  _ He _ was the master and she was His faithful servant. One day He would grant her her freedom, but she was in no rush. Once her soul was returned to her she would have to return to the normal world; leaving behind the dark under dwelling she had grown to love.

 

“Have you had enough, yet?” She asks Him, blowing dust off her elegant fingernails. He reaches into his spyglass, moving mountains and hurtling an apocalyptic wave of ocean water down upon the pathetic little people who dared to call an island home. “Apparently not.”

 

“That tricky witch!” He shouts, pacing and summoning the screaming form of a doomed minion, tearing it apart, sewing it back together again only to set alight to burn for a thousand years and banishing it to his darkest and deepest pit. 

 

“You’re taking this all a bit too personally, don’t you think?” Evanora suggests calmly. It’s nothing she hasn’t witnessed before. Over the centuries she had seen Him seduce, torment and terrorize some of the bravest and fiercest men and women; some even stood a chance, others had bested Him but only barely.

 

Many had passed tests, trials and tribulations and so on and so forth. Edward I had been a severely slippery tarnish His on record, even the assassin His Dark Loveliness had sent to do the young king in hadn’t been able to slay him. But time had proved to be the king’s downfall in the end... time and legacy did more to mortal men than physical pain sometimes. 

 

Suffice it to say there had been... exceptions when it came to certain mortals. 

 

Still, Evanora could not see why this witch was so important and why He had been after her for so long. So, the mortal wretch could move things with her mind, enchant the minds of filthy animals, pass between worlds.

 

There were mortal children who also possessed such gifts and He didn’t entertain them. 

 

_ Michael Burnham, what a thorn in my side you have been,  _ Evanora thinks boredly.

 

“Should you not take this up with your Brother? It was he who started this whole mess after all.” Evanora suggests after another boat of soul scourging. 

 

_ Why does He obsess over her when it could be just us?  _ She wonders. 

 

Her dark master looks upon her and she can only meet his eyes momentarily before the pressure becomes too great. There had been a time once when she couldn’t bare to look at his true face and bear witness to his true nature. 

 

It had been so heart stopping, so utterly humiliating in its terror. 

 

“ _ He  _ is no brother of mine,” He seethes. “Neither in birth nor dominion. He is a god amongst his own lonely path.” 

 

“And yet you call upon your cauldron for him when Hell grows too empty.” Evanora says and instantly she regrets her words. She feels her death again and again... her rape, her prostration lasts and lasts until he removes every inch of her and remakes her again. 

 

Because she isn’t anything more than a tool for him to use; and for that high honor, Evanora is grateful her torture doesn’t last long. Because it is an honor, one she appreciates and loves more deeply as she was capable to feel. 

 

When He ends His torture He cradles her face and she gazes lovingly at Him despite the pain and fear; because in the end pain and fear are all she can feel now and they are glorious in this world of manic insanity.

 

“You,” He whispers in almost holy awe of her. “Have been the most faithful of my wives. And yet you continue to challenge me.”

 

“Please my lord,” she quivers, wanting to touch His hand that burns her so harshly. “You must see that that is the reason for your infatuation with the mortal.”

 

He listens to His wife, His counselor and adviser. His sweet, precious Hand of destruction. Eons had passed in the blink of an eye with her. And no matter what pain or punishment He inflicted upon her, Evanora remained ever loyal only to Him. 

 

Not that she hadn’t had other offers...

 

“Since her conception you have watched,” Evanora continues. “Do not play coy with me for I know you too well. You know I am not a fool.”

 

He releases her and turns His back but bids her to rise. She does so gracefully, with a dark elegance cultivated over millennia.

 

“I must have her.” He confesses, silencing the screams of the damned. “I must, if only to show her what her real potential is and that there can be only one master of her power.”

 

“What about  _ him _ ?” She asks, looking to His dark cauldron that swirled with black and amber fumes. “He shall know and want a say.”

 

He chuckles to Himself, shrugging and dawns a mortal mask of flesh and blood. 

 

“He lost his right long ago,” He says decidedly and turns to Evanora, cloaking her in his making of a mortal woman. “If he interferes then there are ways around it. He cannot leave his underworld for long.”

 

Evanora takes a careful step towards him.

 

“We are also bound by the same token.” She reminds Him and He smirks. 

 

“Ah, but you forget, my darling,” He says cupping her new face, imbuing her with new strength. She screams but He holds her firmly as if she were a child. “I was there at the beginning of the mortal world. We are as one.  _ He _ ... came much later.”

 

**X**

 

“Stamets mourns for Culbar,” His lordship says knowingly. Michael watches Gabriel stack another mountain of books atop his desk. The task of clearing out whatever possessions he wishes to take with them to Scotland had been going on for three days. Michael still felt no oppressed spirits coming forth to do harm, but she still sensed and even saw them. 

 

A look of equal mourning made in favor of them wishing these mortal souls would remain so that they may be a living tether to this realm. But through Michael they knew it could not ever be that way again. 

 

“He has lost his companion,” Michael says, slipping her arm into his own, leaning against his side. 

 

“Saru still searches for a body.” He says and sighs deeply, resting a hand on the pile of books. “Stamets wasn’t the only one who lost a companion. My friend is...” he clears his throat. 

 

“He was the best of us.” She says, knowing it was something that was said during a time like this. “I know Stamets would like to bury him before we leave for Camden.”

 

“Sylvia still thrives and we have each other.” He takes her hand in his. “Despite the lives lost I cannot help but be grateful for what was saved, and preserved.” 

 

“How will we explain this?” She asks, referring to her unborn child which she felt growing stronger and more real as the milliseconds passed. 

 

“We will say your husband died. Scotland is not England but it is still the world we live in.” He says sadly but Michael understands. She sees the strain of living such a life on his face already. She sees the arguments, she hears the rumors and she can see the looks people will give them. 

 

_ Let them look,  _ she thinks defiantly. 

 

“How are the two of you?” He asks her, a warm smile on his face, taking the sting of loss and death away from the moment to focus on the future. The future light of their lives. 

 

“I feel... we feel perfect.” She answers simply. 

“I long to make you my wife. In truth.” He tells her earnestly. Michael kisses his chin and nestles her face against his neck. 

 

“Do you trust me?” She asks him, he chuckles against her. 

 

“Yes.”

“And you love me?” She asks.

“Undoubtedly.” He answers. 

“And do you honor and respect me no matter what the future might bring?”

 

Gabriel leans back and brushes a curl from her face. 

 

“Till the end of time itself.” He breathes quietly. 

“Then we are married.” She says with a smile. 

 

Sighing he slowly shakes his head.

 

“It is not as simple as that,” he tells her and she shrugs.

“Why can it not be? I see no one else who could ever measure up to the man you are. The man I adore, the man I love. Is that not what a wife must feel for her husband?” 

 

Gabriel floundered for a moment. But he had no argument. A piece of paper meant a lot to the real world, but it seemed meaningless to Michael. All she wanted was him and his love, that seemed enough for her. So he decided in that moment it was enough for him. 

 

“Very well, wife.” 


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought they were safe?

Many times throughout his life, Paul Stamets had often wondered at what point during his existence had he made the singular important choice to be where he was today. The house was shuttered, as his heart now felt. He felt as small looking at the house now as he had been when he first set eyes upon it. And the same feeling remained... doom. Yes, evil had been vanquished. But at what cost? The love of his only life, the only love that had ever seemed to matter to him. 

 

From the first moment had he had set his eyes on Hugh to the last... there had been only him. And now, with no body to bury, no room for ceremony or memorium, he was to leave it all behind. The life they could never have had, could only have day dreamed about, was all taken away. 

 

In the most recent years their time together had been strained, brief moments captured were few and far between. 

 

And he was expected to simply- what? Carry on... carry on, old boy. Chin up, stiff upper lip. That’s the way men deal with it. That’s the only British way. 

 

_ Gods and men and evil be damned, there is no room for God in my eyes,  _ he thinks. 

 

Stamets oversees the removal of furniture, books and important documents. The house was to be closed, forever. He had wanted to suggest it be burned to the ground, that the earth beneath the scorched ruins be salted and blessed by a priest; any holy man, whatever their belief, would do. He didn’t care, he simply wanted it gone. 

 

But it was not his place to suggest such a thing. It wasn’t his home. Not really. Surely, he had spent the important youthful years of life there, found love and lost it, been terrified and horrified, but that had never been living. It had only been a prison sentence. He could’ve found a new position, but... then there was Hugh and there had been reason to stay at Gallowglass.

 

Why must he stay on as Lord Lorca’s butler now? 

 

_ Michael Burnham,  _ he reminds himself. In Michael he found a friend, an unlikely one but a friend nonetheless. And he was short on those and always had been. And of course, there was Miss. Tilly to consider. He had grown quite fond of the child having seen her grow from a helpless babe to a young girl. He found himself, much to his surprise, unwillingly invested in her life and future. 

 

He wanted to see her mature further. He wanted to see the childish and youthful glow return to her rosy cheeks once more. He wanted to watch as the shadow of evil passed over her and relented and gave up on it’s quest to take hold of her. She was not there’s. No, Miss. Tilly belonged to the light. And while Stamets knew he possessed no great skill or power beyond the physical world he knew Michael Burnham did have such power. 

 

And he would be there as whatever she needed him to be. He had to... for he had no other reason to go on now. 

 

As the family leaves for Camden, tucked away in the cold harshness of Scotland, Stamets watches the house as it looms in the sunlight. Ever thriving in it’s own darkness despite the light that burns it’s doors and windows and rooms. The gates will be locked securely behind them. The doors will be bolted. But the windows remained open, anyone with enough bravery and or foolishness could scale the gate and peek. 

 

Peek inside... see a face looking back that is not your own and run away in fear and horror. Or stay... stay and become what the house needs. A tether... a rope slipping through fingers and hands. 

 

The carriage rocks against the gravel and dirt... Stamets notes the calm serenity this place suddenly has. There are no barking hounds, nothing looming over his shoulder. And there in the east wing window, he sees a face... her ladyship, Katrina Lorca. The woman he killed. She watches on, flitting from window to window. 

 

And more faces appear, like a gallery of the dead. Ones he knows, ones he cannot fathom to know. Kayla is wandering the grounds as if in a state of confusion. Ellen Landry watches from the front door and beside her was Mrs. Staff the dead housekeeper who had come before her. 

 

Faces of Lorca ancestors of the past watched from every window of the house. It moved him in a strange way, that they should all come to pay their respects when no one would come to see them again... and at last, as they passed through the gate, his heart seemed to stop and time seemed to stand still. 

 

In the rising mist of the morning light was a tall, broad figure whom he knew distinctly and immediately and without question. 

 

Hugh raises his hand as the gate closes behind them. 

 

When one’s own personal, separate world is taken from them, sometimes all one can do is watch as it leaves. 

 

X

 

Price... no, it didn’t have a dignified ring to it. Morton, Malford, Landford, Langly... idiot names for idiot mortals. He was still growing used to this new body. He had inhabited the bodies of humans before, but He much rather preferred animals to these pale little beasts. Shuddering at the thought He would have to spend the foreseeable future as one He rolls his eyes. He was already bored. 

 

“There’s been a letter,” Evanora says, entering the room. 

“What do you think of this suit?” He asks her instead, gesturing to his reflection. He rubs the material between His fingers, then strokes his face. “A beard, a little obvious.” He mutters.

 

“The beard is dignified but that color isn’t.” She responds flippantly, handing the parchment to him. 

 

“Why should this concern me?” He asks her, reading through the words. 

“We have to be careful. Our presence here has already raised questions to-”

“To whom?” He snaps. 

 

Evanora chooses her next words careful, folding her dainty hands over her one another. 

 

“To certain interested parties.” 

 

He scoffs and burns the letter. 

 

“Witches and warlocks have never scared me,” He tells her. “Light or dark, in the end they all draw their power from the same fountainhead.” 

 

And now He must contend with covens and secret societies. They all considered themselves to be so damn important. Either paying homage to His own unholiness or to that fucker high above the rest. It didn’t matter in the end to Him, so long as His world kept turning. 

 

He removes the suit and lifts another, charcoal gray. Damn, the bitch was right. He does like this color better, and the beard seemed fitting. 

 

“And what does the  _ fountainhead _ think of the impending arrival?” Evanora asks, standing behind Him, coming to look over His shoulder, lifting a piece of lint from His shoulder and smoothing out wrinkles. 

 

“The steward of Camden looks forward to the happy couple.” He answers her and she smiles broadly. “It must be done carefully. I shall need you to make appearances... down below, so to speak.” 

 

She nods.

 

“We must keep a presence as above so below.” He continues, tying His cravat but having trouble she moves to stand in front of Him to help Him and He relinquishes the task to her. 

 

“Have Mr. and Mrs. Townsend been... properly  _ dispatched _ ?” He asks her and she nods again.

“They suddenly had to be taken away,” she says, feigning sadness. “Tsk, tsk... so unexpected was their departure they left the estate in the  _ trusted  _ and  _ capable  _ hands of Mr. and Mrs...?”

 

He groans, oh right, the bloody name. 

 

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas about the name.” He asks and she thinks for a moment, finishes the tie and looks at their reflection, the two of them standing side by side. She loops her arm into His. 

 

“Spears.” She answers and He looks down at her and kisses her forehead, His burning kiss remaining like a brand and she savors it. His gentleness is something to be enjoyed and never taken for granted. 

 

“Well done, Evanora.” He compliments. “Shall we prepare for the arrival of Lord Lorca and Michael Burnham.” He ushers her out of the room and she follows him gladly. As they parade through the house He begins planting small spells here and there, in various areas of the house. The library, the master bedroom, the attic and the cellar. He enchants the staircase and conjures forth souls long since past. They scream and fight against Him but He conquers them with ease. 

 

“You will be my watchers, my eyes and ears. You know the price you will pay for disobedience...  _ eternal _ damnation. For this place is just a brief moment of respite along the road to wherever you eventually end up.” He warns them all. “Do as I command and I’ll even put in a good word for you to the one God that matters.” 

 

When the deal is struck and all is said and done the spirits have no choice. They are officially duty bound to Him, with the one incentive being they  _ might  _ be taken from this place and given peace at last. Funny thing, peace. All men strive to achieve it and few realize they actually have it, until it’s too late.

 

He intended to show Lord Lorca and Michael Burnham the true meaning of too late. Let them get comfortable, let them find peace, then He will enjoy tearing them apart. She managed to evade Him once before, He intended to never make the same mistake twice. And if that... hateful mongrel of a wayward  _ brother  _ of His- as Evanora described him- decided to involve himself He would make quick work of him.

 

_ Brother...  _ they were never brothers. And if they had been born together, shared the same wretched womb He would have done away with him long ago. He was the true master after all, not some petty half god who came later as an accident and an afterthought. They never shared the same goals, ideals or loyalties. He was always feared more... He was always loved more.

 

But Death was also a funny thing, they needed each other. 

 

What was the king of the underworld without the Grim Reaper? Who was Lucifer without Death? 

 

No. Not brothers. Enemies and unwilling partners, all because God above decided it be so. In a way it was His own fault. He had gone and tempted beautiful Eve in the Garden of Eden. If only it had been so simple. But man wished to write his own story and alter facts and events. So much of the true story was lost and those who were there were mostly gone now. 

 

One could make the argument Eve had wanted to be tempted, desired to be given the chance to decide for herself. He had simply opened the door for that... 

 

Pausing in an empty room He sighs deeply as all heat leaves and the room darkens. 

 

“I’ve been expecting you,” He says over His shoulder, finally turning fully to the being in front of him. Not a man at all, neither are in truth. “No death shroud today?” 

 

“You have exceeded your limits this time.” Death says strongly, his anger visible by mood and the sneer across his... it was hardly a face. Two large oval eyes set in to a husk of withered leatherlike flesh; if his wings extended He was sure they would be the same, in fact, He was sure of it. 

 

“Have I?” He says, glancing around Himself and shrugging. “Doesn’t seem to be a damn thing you can do about it.” 

 

“I will not stand for this.” Death defends, coming towards him, almost limping, half hunched so that his large head did not hit the ceiling. 

 

He backs away and holds up a hand.

 

“Ah, ah,” He says, wagging His finger at the grotesque and imposing figure. “You gave up the right to care a long time ago, Reaper. It’s my turn now.” 

 

Death stops a foot away from Him, an invisible line he cannot cross, like salt to a demon. He already feels his power beginning to drain, he’s been too long away from his own realm. It’s weakening him, being engrossed in so much...  _ life _ without taking it. He laughs at the struggle of Death. 

 

“Look at you,” He says mockingly. “Still playing fetch for that fucker above. You disgust me.” 

 

“And you’re so much better,” Death replies, shrinking away from him. “Haunting innocence, corrupting it. Mutilating it. Defiling anything pure.”

 

“I defile nothing that does not wish to be defiled,” He says simply. “You on the other hand take that which is most precious to every being. Tell me, do you see all of their faces. Do you remember each one?”

 

Death glares at him. 

 

“You know I do.”

“So do I,” He says, a strange familiarity passes between them. “The only difference is I don’t let it rule me.” 

 

“I have no choice-”

“You’ve always had a choice, that’s what makes you weak. You choose to be this pathetic parasite! Wallowing in your self pity. You choose to be weak and powerless. Hiding away from all of  _ this _ .” He gestures to the room around him, looking out the window. “All of that. All that  _ life _ ... ours for the taking.”

 

Shaking his head Death turns away and grips the door frame with a bony almost claw like hand. 

 

“No. That is not my path. I implore you to reconsider what you plan to do.” 

 

“ _ Implore _ me? Good heavens, how the mighty have fallen. I shall not cease what I intend to do. And when the time comes, I trust you shall be there to cull the putrid mortal Lorca from this earth and deliver his soul to me. As per the stipulations of your own... life choices.”

 

Death, hunched shoulders and long limbed and tattered wings, lets out a burdensome sigh. 

 

“I do hope this is the last we meet,” He goes on as Death begins his ritual to leave. “Until the obvious of course.” 

 

“I won’t let you get away with it.” Death warns him. 

“Please,” He scoffs. “I already have.”

 

With a dark flash Death disappears and He finds Himself alone once more. He shivers and brushes off His arms as if the being that had appeared to Him had left something behind. The stink of death... few were capable of picking up on it, sometimes it just lingered in the air like the smell of stale smoke. 

 

So, Death had appeared in the mortal realm and this time not for reaping. Well, if he planned to truly interfere this would be a most unforgettable season. 

 

After all, He was playing with something far more precious than a simple mortal witch awakening to her latent abilities. 

 

This was the daughter of Death himself. What a marvelous opportunity. 

  
  


**X**

 

The house was anything but silent. Only a fool would think it was empty. Only someone who did not possess the will of second sight would see nothing more than a shut up house on a hill. But Philippa knew better. 

 

After recovering from Michael’s terrifying rampage at the inn she and Horace had set out to follow her, only to be lost in the illusion of the blizzard. Had it not been for their combined efforts and their magic as strong as it was she feared they would have perished. 

 

They had both seen the separate terrors that followed them throughout their lives. They had both been tormented by the ghosts of their pasts. But together they had made it through. But by the time the curse was lifted and the glamour of the storm passed did they realize how little ground they had covered. The village hardly a mile away. 

 

Michael had broken the curse, but Philippa’s own ego and pride had been badly damaged; not to mention the hurt feelings she still harbored for Michael and the physical toll the ordeal had taken on her as well as mental. 

 

And the apparitions that came back to haunt Philippa had been powerful; her brother’s twisted and bloated dead face hovering in front hers, disembodied except for his dropping and oozing mouth. Her mother and father banishing her from their house, releasing her from their protection and charge. 

 

With Horace’s gentle guidance he had brought them back to the inn. She was practically mute in her rage. So much about the girl boggled her. There was still so much Michael didn’t know, things in her blood, in her soul; marked from conception. Even her unborn child carried a black mark now.

 

In essence, Michael was a thing that  _ should not  _ be. It went against every law of nature, violated ancient word and doctrine. And it happened again with Lord Lorca breeding a new form of life, if you could truly call it life, with Michael. A sterile monster procreating with a  _ thing  _ that should not have been in the first place.

 

Death cannot create life. Not death as Philippa, Horace and others like them knew it as. 

 

The Angel of Death was still an angel. But angels often had their own agendas, their own code of conduct. Their own... tactics. 

 

You would never wish to meet one. 

 

Even the darkest lord who resided in hell was once the most favored and loved angel of them all. 

 

No matter how high and mighty one might reach- even if it is literally the heavens above- sometimes it is not enough. 

 

“They haven’t been gone long,” Horace says as he examines the trail left behind by at least three or four carriages. “The ground is still indented and...” 

 

Philippa nods, her eyes lingering on the front door, it’s beckoning her she go inside. Her hand trembles at her side.

 

“I hear them too.” She tells him, approaching the door cautiously. The closer she comes the stronger the voices grow, a harsh and rattling sound of numerous voices speaking at once. Some in fits of rage or despair, whimpering and crying, shouting and hateful. She groans, lifting a hand to her forehead and Horace comes to her side.

 

“We should not have come here,” he says to her urgently. “It is too much for you.” She touches his hand and shakes her head.

 

“I am fine.” She assures him, she lies though. She knows she has not been well for some time. The evil spirit has been vanquished, has been sent back to whatever hell birthed it in the first place... but she had been touched by it first. Something slithered inside of her soul, some part of that damn evil found a way inside. And it was fighting for control. 

 

“Please, Pippa,” Horace implores. “Let us go home. There is nothing left here for us.” 

 

Looking at him now, Philippa remembers her love for him. How strong and noble and weak and human he was. Why she loved him so passionately, why she would die for him above all others. Why should would sacrifice herself, crucify herself for him... she kisses his forehead and he drifts backwards slowly, into a dreamless but restful slumber. She props him up, comfortably. 

 

“I won’t be long, my love.” She vows to his sleeping form. Raising her hand she pushes the door open, it’s heavy locks are meaningless to her. She feels the voices as if they were speaking from inside her, through her. To the common, simple and untrained eye the house would appear empty. But to Philippa it was full beyond capacity. 

 

She moves through crowded hallways, staircases. It is like a sanitarium for the dead. Dead madness is rife in this place. She smells the old blood soaked air, stale and copper. Bitter and resentful. The pull, the pressure to find something she does not know pushes her onward. 

 

But Philippa knows, deep inside of her heart, she will know it when she sees it. It will be beautiful, delicate, elegant. A trinket fit for a lady. A beautiful piece of finery, perhaps... white? Is it white? Yes. It will be soft and rough. She will know it, she will know it.

 

The room is half empty, the bookshelves cleared. The oak desk reduced to ashes and dust. She pulls the heavy drawer at its center open and finds emptiness. 

 

No... no, not empty. Simply hiding. Lord Lorca would’ve left it behind. He wouldn’t have wanted to carry it to his new home, his new life...

 

She presses on the false bottom and it seethes open with a sigh, and there, hiding and tucked away wrapped in a black cloth was the thing she had been searching for. The thing Philippa knew she would find, the thing she would recognize as soon as she saw it. 

 

A beautiful pearl necklace.

 

X

  
  


Drab, dreary, wet, dark, rolling... beautiful, majestic, ancient... home. 

 

To occupy her mind Michael had made a list of her first impressions of Scotland. Even words often looked at a negative ones she believed fitting. She had suggested Sylvia do the same, though the girl’s list was far more fanciful.

 

Words like “green” and “romantic”, “unreal” and “wild” and “hypnotic”. Sylvia had indeed grown since Michael had last seen her. Perhaps it wasn’t so much height and physical age but more so that the girl had had no choice but to grow more quickly given her circumstances. 

 

Sylvia must have felt terribly alone in Michael’s absence; with no maternal guidance or even sisterly affection she had been forced to be her own best friend and ally. 

 

Stamets had done what he could for the girl. But even he knew his limitations. 

 

His Lordship traveled with Stamets in the other carriage, the urban and ancient smells of Scotland are familiar to him. Here is where one of the most ancient dynasties lived and breathed, fought and died; beaten and unbroken, brought to heel but still on their feet. 

 

Gabriel was a man proud of his heritage. 

 

Stamets looks on out the window, looking lost and young and old in a queer unison of expression; one that could only be answered as grief.

 

Gabriel had never cared what Stamets’ or Culbar’s personal lives were; he only asked that they remain professional. When he had met Hugh, all those years ago, they had both been younger men. 

 

The life of wealth, influence and privilege had been a blessing and a curse to Gabriel. Hugh had been the bastard of servants and knew nothing else outside of the world of orphanages or the streets of London. 

 

He had come to the employ of a family friend of the Lorcas’ when both men had reached their twentieth year. 

 

After meeting Hugh, Gabriel found the young man to be bright and had an instinctive way with animals. They simply flocked to him, adoring and obeying him. 

 

On one of the last nights Gabriel was to stay with his family acquaintance he happened upon a terrible scene. Two of the older footmen had assaulted Hugh, beating him badly. But that was not how he had found them. 

 

At some point in the struggle Hugh had pulled his knife, fatally killing the two footmen in a blind rage. 

 

Gabriel covered for him, and when Hugh was accused of the crime the young lord spoke in his defense, lying and saying he had seen the young man elsewhere when the murders had taken place.

 

The authorities wanted to arrest Culbar despite this. He was a known pickpocket in London and the lady of the House accused him also of theft. 

 

But with Gabriel asking his father for help, Hugh did not see the end of a noose. He had escaped with his life, a life he gave in service of Lord Lorca. 

 

“I did not say it before,” Gabriel begins slowly, Paul’s eyes drawn to him immediately. “But I am sorry for your loss.”

 

Paul’s left eye clouds over, his lips twitch as if to speak but cannot form the words. 

 

“And more so,” Gabriel continues. “I have never thanked you for all you have done. All that you have given and what you continue to give. Your loyalty has been a balm to me in many dark times.”

 

Swallowing, Paul reaches over and touches his Lordship’s hand, gripping it strongly before letting go. 

 

Gabriel smiles, he knows Paul cannot speak of it just yet. But the small action meant more to him than words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT 'HYSTERIA' NOTE!
> 
> If you’ve been following the fic then I am pleased to announce I will be working on a sequel! When that sequel will be published is open for debate but I am VERY excited. Titles are being thrown around, I have a top five, which I am pleased to share and perhaps you guys can share your thoughts 💁🏻
> 
> Possible Titles:
> 
> Mania  
> Craze  
> Frenzy  
> Delirium  
> Witness
> 
>  
> 
> That’s all I’ve got so far. And an even bigger more important question: would you guys read a sequel? Love you guys! Thank you for supporting 'Hysteria' with your comments, kudos, reblogs etc… it means so much to me!!


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY, HAPPY HOLIDAYS! I am hoping to post at least one more chapter :D And I have decided to title the sequel 'Witness', by popular demand <3 Thank you guys so much for everything!

 

Phaedra watched as the bowl shattered on the marble floor. It didn’t happen slowly. It slipped through her fingers as if her hands were covered in lard, she might have gasped, she might have cried out. She did not know. But the crystal bowl was now ruined and a family heirloom was destroyed. What would she ever explain to Mister Townsend? The man would surely send her back to her father now. She couldn’t hide it, though her first instinct was to dispose of the evidence entirely, wash away all manner of foul play that had just taken place.

 

_ I could come clean, simply admit what I did and perhaps he’ll spare me another beating,  _ she thinks rather calmly to herself. As she examined whether or not the crystal could be repaired, with great hope but with a realistic mind that it was indeed broken beyond repair, she saw a shadow cast over her. Turning she examined the immaculate footwear she saw; pristine leather shoes, her eyes traveled upward to the grinning face of a man she did not recognize. 

 

“You look a bit caught.” The man speaks elegantly, but it sounds like a practiced vernacular, like it wasn’t his real voice. She sighs ruefully and turns back to the shards of crystal. The man must be new, she was unaware there was a position that had opened up. Not that Mister Townsend would tell her anything. She simply came, cleaned a little then went back to the boarding house. 

 

“Mister Townsend will have my hide now,” she grumbles, lifting a shard, once more it slipped through her fingers to tear a small cut into her finger. “Damn it.”

 

The man chuckles, crouching beside her to examine her injury. 

 

“Young ladies shouldn’t curse,” he warns her teasingly. “It is bad form.” 

“Well, it is a good thing I am not of the mind to care about form, sir.” She says to him, she removes her hand from the warmth of his lager one and rises, choosing to fetch her broom to clean up her mess. 

 

She hears him follow, feels him watching her as she sets about her duty. 

 

“ _ Must _ you stare?” She asks him, he leans against a wall as the shards clatter into the bin. 

 

“It is not everyday that I see such beauty in such a menial position.” He mentions, his tone light. 

 

Phaedra rolls her eyes, uncaring if whatever his position at Camden house was. 

 

“You must not see much beauty, sir.” She says simply. 

 

“You are right,” he continues. “But I know it when I see it.” 

 

Phaedra looks towards him then, her breath catching in her throat at the brilliance in his eyes. As if he’s seeing her completely bare, as if he can see her hidden secrets, her torments and her joys. For a moment, they are all his. 

 

Swallowing she goes back to her work. 

 

“You are new here.” She points out. She feels him approaching once more. 

 

“Yes. I am the new steward and caretaker,” he holds out his hand to her, a golden ring adorns the smallest finger on his left hand. 

 

“Sir Laurence March Spears.” She shakes his hand, once more her flesh is engulfed in heat. She wondered if he were running a fever... but he did not look sickly, albeit a little pale. 

 

“Phaedra Smith.” She answers, but her strong tone has been replaced with a meeker one, a sound she was not accustomed to hearing from herself. 

 

She might be a girl but she was no innocent blushing virgin. Yet this man was making her feel every inch as self conscious as a new bride. 

 

“That is a beautiful name,” he says. “Greek, is it not?”

 

She nods. 

 

“Yes, sir.” She answers. 

“You have nothing to fear from Mister Townsend any longer. Things are going to be  _ very  _ different under my watch.” He promises. She finds herself smiling, something in his eyes tells her she can trust him, he is a friend to her. To give him her smiles, her affection, her devotion...

 

“Thank you, sir.” She says, shyly. 

“I ask only for your loyalty, your trust.” He goes on, did his eyes change? They’re almost slitted now... snakelike, almost blue fire, almost red... amber orbs. 

 

But Phaedra cannot look away... she feels tired, very tired. She blinks and she’s leaning against him, she offers an apology but he scoops her up in his arms. 

 

“Will you serve me, child?” He whispers, his voice is inside her, penetrating her mind and her soul. She cries out as she feels him against her, where are they? She was so hot all of the sudden, hotter than she had ever been in her life. As if the winter of her youth had been doused in lava. 

 

Everything is pressure and tension,  _ sweet _ tension. 

 

He’s everywhere, captivating her, touching her with more than just his physical presence. 

 

“Yes... yes I will serve you.” She quivers, her dress is about her waist, she feels his manhood burning a hole through her undergarments as she grapples at his arms, needing him closer. 

 

Sweet salvation, he was so close. 

 

When he enters her she whimpers weakly in pleasure so great she fears she will surely collapse into unconsciousness. 

 

She isn’t even sure where she is or where he has taken her but it is dark and bright all at once, flames scorch her flesh; there is pain and there is abandon, there is humiliation and sanctity. 

 

Phaedra is crucified on him, impaled and sheathed and taut with ecstasy. 

 

And when she opens her eyes to catch a glimpse of him she tears back in terror at the demonic beast above her,  _ inside  _ her. A monster of unspeakable horror. A gruesome malevolent  _ thing _ , the hands of a man, the torso of a man but the face of surely Satan himself. 

  
  


**X**

 

The kicking started in a dream. In her dream, Michael lay in a bed of white flowers, their name was a mystery to her. The ground beneath was neither dry or damp and a small field mouse ran back and forth across the flat surface of her nude belly. Back and forth, lightly thumbing it’s small paws across her skin. She let it, there was something familiar about it, something told her to be gentle with it and to treat it with sweetness. 

 

But then the weight of the creature increased and she could not even stand the pressure. It grew heavier and heavier, like bricks being stacked on top of her. The flowers began to wither as the storm drew in all around her. There was no noise, there was no tremble, just the overwhelming fear and the heaviness of the mouse on top of her. 

 

The mouse vanished and beneath her skin she saw a face, she saw hands and she saw feet and she saw a mouth with sharp teeth; she saw claws, she felt it trying to tear itself out of her. The kicking felt like she was being beaten repeatedly, over and over again. She kept waiting for herself to wake up and try as she might she couldn’t wake. The eyes... the eyes had come back.

 

Eleanor... her eyes in the face of Philippa. No, no, no what was happening? Michael felt hands on her, she felt the child scream inside of her womb but she could only  _ feel _ it she couldn’t hear it. She wanted to speak, to cry out, but there was nothing in this void. The flowers were all but gone, the storm was above her face, there were claws pulling her apart, something inside her mind. 

 

Why couldn’t she wake up? Why could she breathe but feel suffocated? Where had all her senses gone to...?

 

_ Danger in the dark, danger in the light, danger comes in weakness, danger comes in might... _

 

Her eyes opened, she gasped quietly for air, her face pressed into the hard leather surface of the carriage. She saw Sylvia, restfully writing away in her diary, unaware of the nightmare Michael had been suffering. So, she hadn’t been making a scene at least. Realizing she felt something truly kicking her hand went to her belly.

 

There... at her waist, on it’s side, her baby kicked. She swore she felt a toe, the tiniest of limbs. She chuckles softly to herself, nervously. Sylvia glances up over her girlish diary and frowns,

 

“Are you alright, Michael?” The girl asks. Michael pats the seat beside her and Sylvia comes to sit with her.

 

“Fine.” She answers quietly, another subtle kick and she breathes a sigh of relief. Gabriel and Michael have told none of the staff of her pregnancy. How would they explain it to Sylvia? The staff could easily deduce it, could make up their own minds. But Sylvia was a growing girl but still a child. And they couldn’t risk any loose lips, even if it wasn’t out of malice. 

 

Together Gabriel and Michael had created a backstory for whoever questioned her past. Her husband died then she discovered she was pregnant, they hadn’t been married very long and her good lord and master took pity on her and kept her on so she would not be destitute. 

 

It wasn’t uncommon or unheard of, but she thought of the future more now than ever before. What of when the child grows? What will they tell him or her then? That their mother is the lover of a wealthy and respected white lord and they shall never speak of it lest rumor and gossip be the downfall of all of British high society? Good God in heaven, what would the populace at large do if ever such a sorted story got out?

 

Michael wanted to laugh at the idiocy of it all. Damn the good society, the high society, the whole damn show was just that, a show. A silly act of tradition and loose morals. Who were all of these noble men and women when the curtain came down?

 

They were human, with vices and sins and enjoying each and every one of them. Even Lord Pike, sweet gentleman that he was, was not impervious to such pleasures of the flesh or whims. The man had few vices but he had some all the same. Michael planned to write to him when they reached Camden. She wanted to reassure him and put his mind at ease. 

 

And then, she thought of her dream... of Philippa’s face with the eyes of Eleanor. She had learned long ago to trust in the imagery of her dreams. That the smallest moment, the briefest second could be the most important. The significance of what she saw in her dream could not be stored away in that little room of hers.

 

The room needed to be open, it needed to breathe. Too long had she put away the things that had shamed her so much. She could not ignore this either. Michael did not know of a way to reach Philippa and Horace, so she would also ask that of Lord Pike. She hoped they were well. She hoped so many things... but she also knew it was a relationship that had been tenuous from the start and that had never had time to truly develop and grow into something long lasting. 

 

But she held no ill will. It was time to let go of many things. Anger and resentment being among the most important. Michael believed in the power of forgiveness, in a religious and literal way. She hoped their paths did cross again and then she could truly apologize and rebuild. If not, if Philippa wanted nothing more to do with her, then that would be that. But she had to try. 

 

There was more to rebuild than that of wood and stone. There were relationships too. There were the Sareks, Sylvia, there was Stamets and Owosekun, even Mister Saru who had appeared from his lodgings having been locked inside for days, living on nothing more than the meager scraps of food he had available to him; there was Lord Pike and God willing Philippa and Horace.

 

But, and perhaps most important of all, there was Gabriel. With her hand still resting on her belly Michael smiled. Nightmares were a thing of the past,  _ real _ nightmares. Not the petty little musings of a mind at rest. Michael had seen and faced real nightmares. She had looked them in the eye, she had seen hell. She planned not to make a visit again. 

 

**X**

  
  


There was a time when he had a true name, when he had been loved and feared. Adored for his strength and repulsed by his own kind at how he was to wield such power. Never had a mortal looked upon him without the combination of the two. Until... he could not remind himself of  _ her _ again. It was too painful. For he could never die, never know what realm waited for him because there was none. 

 

Neither living nor dead, trapped between the two. Soiled and pure, tainted and anointed. Feared and loved... feared  _ and _ loved. He had brought death so that new life might take place. All things must die and come to their end, whether it was fair or unfair was not his decision. He simply knew, simply felt, which souls were meant to be reaped and when. He was not entirely in control, the Fates saw to that to play with him. 

 

He took no pleasure in slaughtering babies or killing innocents in the millions. But man had long since lost it’s noble love of him and fear was all that remained. Many sought to elude him, many tried and failed in their endeavors to run from death. Some had even spent their whole lives looking for him. Some had even made deals with the Devil to remain in the plain of man a little longer.

 

Twenty four years ago, all he had known was the thousands and thousands more years blended together as one long night of purging and plundering the souls of the living. Sending them to the other half of himself or the third. For he felt he was split into three beings at times. His heavenly Father who had brought and given him this queer half life and his devil of a brother, deep in the pit of sin below. 

 

Never before had he felt anything akin to mortals except pity. It was a time of day and night where worlds spun together like a spider’s web. There was no light and there was no darkness, as he often wondered if that was how the universe was before all of life had begun. 

 

And in this beautiful twilight of the mourn did he see the ethereal creature that challenged him in every way possible. His form to mortals was repulsive and terrifying. Not that he couldn’t shift or change. It was that he chose not to and eventually the fleshy suit he would adorn would rot and lose it’s life. 

 

But  _ she  _ had seen him. He could have reaped her, could have frightened her, could have made her believe what she had seen had all been a terrible dream. But when dark eyes met his hollow black orbs... the cosmos shined it’s brilliance into them. And it was then that he knew all the secrets of the universe. Could it be so...? 

 

His love for her had brought upon the wrath of God and Satan themselves. He could not make life, he could only provide the path for it. The rules of mortal and godly nature were broken in the short time he spent with the mortal woman. And because of his offense, for his law breaking and defiance to his Almighty God, he was punished to watch her wither away.

 

His God had let the devil out to teach him not to interfere again. Who was the devil, who the benevolent god? Who was the being in death’s shroud? 

 

He let the world bleed, suffer and cry; putting leeches along it’s swollen, bloated belly. He let illness linger, made pain stronger, left children without mothers as his child would be without mother. Fathers to watch their line end, farmers to see their crops rot. He let the pain of his wounds fester into the souls of the living. For he knew their God would not help them. 

 

**X**

 

The carriages rolled up the flat, gravel drive and Michael was astonished to see how much of the realm of reality seemed to combine what she had seen in her visions with Gabriel was actually truth. Though the weather was less than agreeable, with rain spraying rather than falling, the locke and the rolling hills that surrounded Camden were virtually identical to those she had seen in her mind’s eye. Here was what was considered to be the second ancestral home of the Lorca family. 

 

Barely lived in, in recent memory, but where her darling had been born and where their child should take its first breath. It was not the imposing gothic pillar of madness that Gallowglass had been, but instead made of brick, stone and wood with piercing oval towers and a single large front door. Thick vines and well maintained gardens with symmetrical hedges surrounded the front. 

 

Over the spraying rain against the carriage’s glass windows and leather you could hear the faint cries of sea birds over the locke and waves gently brushing against shore.

 

The ancestral coat of arms was large in iron on the gate and above the front door, in Latin, read “Come rest, Go in Peacel”. 

 

As if in blinking Michael could almost see the figures of two people standing in the doorway. The rain against the glass window made it difficult for Michael to see their faces clearly. She reaches over to Sylvia, she gently shook the girl’s hand, waking her from her slumber.

 

“Michael?” The girl says, sleepily. 

“We’re here, Sylvia. Come on, wipe your face, that’s a good girl.” 

 

Michael is suddenly reminded of her arrival at Gallowglass, so long ago now. It had rained then too... as if the heavens had been warning her of some impending doom then as it was now. But they were far away from all of that now. Camden might have it’s ghosts but surely they wouldn’t be of the same like. And yet Michael’s instincts were telling the same thing they had told her then, that she would find no safety at Camden. 

 

_ Nonsense! It is just nerves about being in a new place, about Gabriel and the baby,  _ she tells herself. She will not keep running from evil her all life. 

 

Camden was a fresh start, not the most ideal perhaps, for she and Gabriel could never truly be married. But it was all she had hoped for. Peace, quiet, in another foreign land that she hoped she could make her own home. 

 

The rain seemed to be stemmed somewhat, a small bit of sun began to shown through the dimness of the day. Michael adjusts Sylvia’s bonnet so she is agreeable to whomever they are meeting. Gabriel told her they were the caretakers, stewards of this place. 

 

The Townsends, a husband and wife hired many years ago to watch over the old place. 

 

Stamets comes to the carriage and opens the door, taking Michael’s hand as she exits followed by Sylvia, who, though shy, is simply bustling with excitement. A child’s innate nature to explore the wonders of a new place. Michael couldn’t help but feel something similar. 

 

A brief exchange with Gabriel tells her something is amiss. 

 

“Good afternoon,” the man at the front of the house says merrily, ascending the few steps towards them. The woman who remained at the front of the house was indeed the palest creature Michael had ever seen, with raven hair tied back in an intricate braid that fell at her waist. 

 

“I do not believe we are acquainted, sir.” Gabriel says warily. 

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I sent word but we must have missed you. I have here a note from Mister Townsend. An urgent family matter in Wales, he hired my wife and I to take over his position for the time being.”

 

Gabriel takes the note, reading it’s contents as well examining the hand it was written in. The stranger briefly glances at Michael to smile in a charming manner that she does not reciprocate and looks instead to the gardens, letting him know they are far more interesting to her than himself. 

 

“Very well,” Gabriel says, though he seems reluctant. “Forgive my surprise, Mister Spears.” 

“No need, my Lord. My wife and I were happy to help the Townsends and in turn, yourself.”

 

“My small staff,” Gabriel says, gesturing to the others. “My head of staff, Mister Stamets. Head maid, Owosekun, my gardener Mister Saru- no self respecting Englishman should travel without one- my niece, Lady Tilly and her governess, Michael Burnham.”

 

“How do you do.” The man, now known to all as Mister Spears, bows politely. “This is my wife, Evanora. We also have another maid, a girl named Phaedra who comes from town and two footmen who also live in town.”

 

“I should like an examination of the grounds immediately, Mister Spears.” Gabriel says walking towards the house, Evanora curtsied to his lordship meeting his eyes for a moment before her husband opened the front doors and allowing him entrance. 

 

Funny... how that so appropriate a gesture to anyone set Michael’s blood to boil. The woman was obviously unafraid and gave the impression she was the gatekeeper to this place. She was beautiful in a strange sort of way. Stamets gave Michael a look and she sighed and began her entrance into the house.

 

“As you can see the house has been kept in perfect condition,” she heard Mister Spears explain. “The most priceless heirlooms require regular cleaning. I can provide a list for your man of the most recent items...”

 

The voices trailed off, elsewhere into another part of the house. Michael looked towards the others who remained with her. Stamets had followed after his lordship as the two hired footmen set about bringing the luggage inside. 

 

Owosekun attempted to not to look nervous while Saru openly displayed his discomfort. Sylvia simply absorbed everything around herself. 

 

Mrs. Spears stood at the bottom of the staircase, set into the wall instead of at the center of everything like at Gallowglass; at the thought of the latter Michael was reminded of how much that grand staircase had been much like the veins of the house. 

 

“I am most grateful for your hospitality Mrs. Spears.” Michael says pleasantly, attempting to wash away her earlier jealousy and resentment, for it was very unlike her. 

 

The woman bows her head slightly. 

 

“It is my purpose, Miss. Shall I show you to your quarters? Then perhaps I can give you a set of keys for your own use.” 

 

Michael raises her hand politely. 

 

“Owosekun will take them,” she explained easily. “She is our head maid after all.” 

 

Mrs. Spears didn’t question it, simply smiled and nodded. 

 

_ Giving orders, I see. Not so much a governess, are you?  _ Evanora thinks. 

 

“We placed you in a most agreeable room near Lady Tilly. I think you will find the rooms of Camden quite modern.” Evanora explains. 

 

“Anything is better than...” Saru mutters to himself. Evanora raises a brow at him and he clears his throat. “Than the  _ carriage _ , is all I meant.”

 

After getting Sylvia settled and relaxed with a glass of water and the suggestion of a hot bath, Michael was shown her own room. It was bigger than the small lodging where she had slept while living at Gallowglass. The oil paintings of scenery and beauty were a welcome sight compared to the dismal aristocratic long faces of dead Lorca ancestors. 

 

“I trust this room is agreeable,” Mrs. Spears says from the doorway. 

“It is more than agreeable, Mrs. Spears,” Michael says, only slightly ashamed she should be treated as if she were a lady. True, she had all the training and owned all the tools for such a title but alas it was something that could never be hers.

 

“I fear it might be too grand.” Michael says with a laugh, the corner of Mrs. Spears’ mouth raises in a smirk.

 

“Nonsense. Why would it matter?” Mrs. Spears asks her plainly. For a moment Michael says nothing and she wonders why the woman looks at her like... well, like nothing. There’s very little by way of emotion that does not seem, frankly, practiced to Michael. In those brief few breaths, inhaling slowly and evenly, as her brain processed minute information, Michael realized how very much like a doll Mrs. Spears looked.

 

It was that same strange, alluring beauty she had first noticed about the steward’s wife. That it was too beautiful, nothing natural about it. So doll-like in her smiles, her mannerisms. 

 

Of course the moment lasted less than five seconds before Michael shrugged off her cloak and hung it by the door.

 

“Miss, you are with child.” Mrs. Spears says and Michael nods, feigning a sadness she had to remind herself to use. 

 

“Yes. The father he... he’s passed.” The lie is bitter for she knows the truth would taste sweeter. 

“My sympathies. May flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest.” Mrs. Spears quotes and Michael smiles brightly.

 

“You know Shakespeare.” She says, moving to the bed to open the trunk that had been brought up for her. The same trunk she had been forced to carry upon her arrival at Gallowglass, with no aid from Stamets then.

 

“I must admit Macbeth is my favorite.” Mrs. Spears says. “Especially... the witches.” 

 

Michael nearly drops a book in her hand but catches herself. The good lady wife comes to her side, resting a hand on her arm.

 

“You’re tired, Miss. Best you rest.” Mrs. Spears says knowingly.

 

Michael did indeed rest. After unpacking a few items she pulled the heavy comforter down, removed her tight boots and put her tired feet up. It amazed her that despite doing barely any walking, yet, and having had traveled so easily by carriage, that she should be so tired. 

 

It was the pregnancy, mostly, she was sure of it. And something else... this strange feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. They couldn’t possibly have gotten away, had they? And when would she be able to see Gabriel, alone, again? He would surely be kept away with business on opening the house and whatever else lords who come out of seclusion do. 

 

Michael would be left to her devices for the foreseeable future. Left to teach Sylvia, to get to know the house with Stamets and Owosekun. Saru would take charge of his own purpose here, he was determined like that. Left with the fetus inside of her, which she was free to daydream about. To make realistic plans for. 

 

Perhaps if the child were not too dark they could have a better chance at life, to make a career for themselves beyond the service to others. And then the fact she even hoped her child would look nothing like her forced a new kind of guilt into her bones. It should not matter, it never should have mattered. 

 

Regardless she would love them, but in spite of that love she would fear for them in ways she hadn’t been fully able to imagine before. Suddenly her own mother came to the forefront of her mind. Had she had the same hopes and fears for Michael? Had she held the same deeply rooted hope that perhaps the Lord would spare her a life of grief and torment because of the color of her skin?

 

Michael had thought she had understood what a mother’s love was when her relationship with Sylvia had changed from governess and student to something else. But it wasn’t until it was revealed to her by Philippa that Michael truly understood the instantaneous love a mother has for someone she has never even met.

 

It was so queer. Mother and child are never strangers for one is forged inside the other, folding over and revealing eyes and fingers and toes, a heart and a brain, veins and skin. The primal desire to love and shelter them. Never strangers... for mother and child are never apart. Something happens, something grows deeper than the fetus itself. An invisible thread like the cord of life attached to the infant at birth. 

 

A doctor may cut that cord, may sever it, but it is never truly gone. And no matter what, no matter hate or anger, good times and terrible ones, that bond remains in an unbreakable knot forever.


	30. Epilogue

~~~~ **~Epilogue~**

 

_ 24 years ago...  _

_ Vulcan Manor, England. _

 

It was to be a beautiful day indeed, Grace decided. The stars had begun to lose their brilliance of the night with the approaching sun, heralding the call of a new day filled with blue sky. The dawn was upon the whole estate and Grace was one of the first to wake. 

 

It was in this state of twilight Grace knew better than anyone the rifts that took place between worlds and realms. The seen and unseen veils that cover and protect our worlds grow transparent, they do not completely disappear but the sheer quality of them is shaken for a time. It was during these moments of transparency that worlds truly collided. 

 

And it was on this particular morning, this particular moment in time when the veils were thinned and worlds apart from worlds met that Grace saw a figure that was incomprehensible to behold. 

 

The sight of it haunted her for weeks afterward; it had seen her, whatever  _ it _ was. And she had seen it. There was no doubt something bipedal, upright with two arms and two legs had been prowling the grounds of Vulcan in the early twilight minutes that were so brief and so precious. 

 

And what was more disturbing was the death that had followed. Mister Chambers had been the elderly caretaker and he had gone to bed and never woken up. Vulcan mourned the loss of such a kind figure who had been nothing but loyal to the Vulcan family for years. 

 

Lord Sarek bid the servants and his young family into the house to pay their respects and to speak a few words at a small memorial service for Mister Chambers before putting him to rest in the servants plot. 

 

Grace had been inside the manor a few times during her employ for Lord Sarek and it never ceased to take her breath away. His lordship was the most well traveled, well spoken and intelligent man she had ever met. He was kind but ignorant, stoic and wise. He was not an affectionate man but he was fair. He had a strong moral compass and dignity which seemed to not pass to his young son, Master Sybok. 

 

The young woman often thought Master Sybok had a severely devious nature which was quite counterintuitive to both his parents. His mother was a relatively quiet woman, with her own accomplishments but they were overshadowed by her husband who had mastered several languages and traveled more than anyone else in their social circle. 

 

Lady Sarek often teased that her husband had scaled more land and sea than Alexander the Great himself. She was not a sickly woman but she was prone to fainting spells and exhaustion, something her son seemed embarrassed of. And yet despite the boy’s...  _ curious _ behavior at times, he doted on his mother more than his own father, who was more often than not away on important business to the crown.

 

At the memorial service for Mister Chambers, Grace sat with a few familiar faces. The sight spoke to her quietly, ensuring her that the old caretaker had met a peaceful end to a long and brilliant life. Then... the voices stopped. For the first time in her entire life she didn't hear them, she couldn’t feel them. It was blindness while still retaining sight, deafness while still being able to hear. 

 

Madness and sanity. 

 

She kept herself together, trying to figure out why she was suddenly left stunted in such a compromising way. There was something behind her, a pressure, a ringing. She felt like she was wrapped in a blanket of some strange material that canceled out everything else, every sense she possessed was horribly sensitive. 

 

“I know you saw me.” A voice says and she shudders, different servants take turns speaking but they are but small dots in her vision now. She has a strong sense they do not see her turmoil. There is someone speaking closely to her, in her ear, at her neck... her hairs stand on edge. 

 

“How did you see me?” The voice asks her, she shrugs, half frozen and afraid.

“I... I don’t know.” She answers quietly. 

“What are you?” Another question, another quake of fear. There was a smell, something rotten and bitter, sour and pungent. Something dead... 

 

Grace attempted to turn but a hand so cold, so lifeless and bony clutched her shoulder, keeping her still. 

 

“No!” It says, as if in pain from touching her. “You can’t look again.” 

“Why not?” She asks quickly after him, curiosity overshadowing her fear. 

“How did you see me?” It asks her again, more urgently this time. 

“I can see things others can’t,” she explains, her voice softening. “I can hear things too. I don’t know how I can, I just do.”

 

The hand, if you could really call it that, releases her. 

 

Weeks turned to months and the shape did not return. 

 

Grace could not forget the being that had visited her, the thing had drowned out all other thought. It wasn’t, strangely, a fear but a nagging longing to  _ know _ more. For surely if it had wanted to cause her harm it would have and in fact it had attempted to keep her from  _ seeing  _ itself, as if seeing it would hurt her. 

 

What was it? Was it a person? Surely not in the sense that Grace knew a person to be. The voice was so disembodied, so devoid of life. As if a thousand voices spoke in unison, so much like her own Sight. 

 

It was like the Sight had been given vocal cords, and she had never been so intrigued before. She wished it would come back. She wished to ask it questions, to know it’s name. The fear morphed and blossomed into fascination. Her mother had spoken of such things, such beings with powers beyond the human brain’s imagination. A realm within realm, worlds within worlds. 

 

Grace thought back to the first time she had seen it. In the twilight hours, when the veils had slipped away...

 

Wrapped in her warmest shawl Grace waited in the high grass beyond the estate, a long walk by foot but she was no stranger to such walks. 

 

Master Sybok was never more content than when he was about on a long leisurely stroll; even at such a young age he preferred the solitude of the wilderness than the big house and she had been trusted with his safety on more than one occasion. Lord Sarek appreciated Grace in many ways, he kept her in warm and safe quarters on the grounds. 

 

Despite his rude and austire attitude, he was more than generous when it came to the those who served him. More generous than he had any right to be. 

 

The quiet of the night began to lift as the shift in time and space began to take place; when there was complete silence, when the animals and humans ceased into nothing but a harmonious stillness. 

 

All things were possible now. It was the most powerful time, a moment when a witch’s power was the most present, when demons, devils and angels alike were at once allies. This time and the witching time... two moments where power strains at the seams. 

 

“Why have you come?” The voice breathes into the silence, her Sight stunted and she forces herself to face the being. 

 

It... shies away from her? Grace takes a careful step towards its massive form. So tall, so elegant and beautiful. It’s tattered wings twitch, as if they were attempting to hide their greatness from her. The width was astounding, nothing like a bird and yet so inhumane. More... angelic than man. 

 

“I wanted to see you.” She says and it grunts, lifting a skeleton hand to cover it face. 

 

“I am not for seeing,” it says. “I am for fearing.”

 

Grace smiles and steps ever closer. 

 

“Who are you? Please, I must know.” 

 

Still it covers its face, she feels its power, a choir of voices swarms through her beckoning her closer. 

 

“My name is Grace.” She tries, more gently. 

 

A strange sound comes from the being, perhaps a chuckle. 

 

“Indeed, you are.”

 

Grace takes her chance and takes hold of its wrist, moving the bony hand from its face. It gasps, startled and frightened and it’s thin but broad wings snap out making it even larger than it already was, but the being was not fast enough. She had seen its face.

 

Death waited for her to fall, waited for her end, so feel the collection of her soul. But it did not come. If he had a heart it would beat out of his chest. The time was running out, their moment of infinite night and day coming to a close. 

 

“You... you’ve  _ seen _ me.” He says, his voice rich with befuddlement. 

 

She smiles again, her hand touching the sunken cheek of his face and the protruding cheekbone.

 

“You are the strangest creature I have ever seen.” She whispers, but the light is beginning to come and the veils are descending and he must away. 

 

“Will I see you again?” She asks him, the leather flesh soft and stiff under her fingers. 

 

“Yes,” He answers quickly. “I promise.”

 

And so it was, under stars and blooming sunshine, that Death and a young woman fell in love thus sending a shock wave throughout the cosmos pulling man and god and devil alike into a battle that would send a catastrophic fire to spread to all living things for years to come. 

 

The result of such a union would break families, tear lives apart, separate angels from duty. The peace that had once rung so long in the night between the demons of darkness and angels of light would be forced into a war neither side could ever have predicted. And it’s outcome, despite punishment and loss, would still rage on upon humanity’s doorstep. And history would find a way to repeat itself once more. 

  
  
  


~To be Continued~


End file.
